#chapter 1 the lower chamber

[sidthedollface2]

Something Borrowed (Part 2)

Read part 1 here

Pairing: Azriel x Reader (Rhys sister)

Series summary: Rhys tells Azriel to back off Elain and find release at a pleasure hall. Instead, Azriel finds you, Rhys' younger sister.

Chapter Summary: Right after we find Azriel and Elain in a compromising position, Azriel tries to smooth things over only to drive you further away. Feelings escalate when Azriel sees another male touching you.

Word count: 5k

Series Warnings: MDNI 18+, ANGST, hurt/no comfort, smut (p in v, oral) no use of yn, nicknames, fighting, jealousy.

A/n: Thank you for all the love on part 1, I really appreciate all the comments, likes, and reblogs. This is part 2 of Something Old Something New. Please read that first, this ch continues right where we left off. I’m sorry it took so long to make this part. I’ve decided to make it a mini-series so expect 2 or more parts. It’s not over till I say it’s over. I'm a daydreamer, not a writer so if you see any mistakes that's how I dreamt it. Lol

Rhys clenched his jaw tightly at the scene in front of him. His brother, a broken shell of a male on his knees, pleading for a love that would never be his. “Azriel, my office now! The rest of you go back to your chambers,” he commands, jerking his head towards his office. Azriel stands, wings dragging behind him as he makes his way towards his inevitable demise.

Rhys enters behind Azriel, closing the door to his office with a wave of his hand. “How dare you disobey me. Not only was my demand about Elain ignored, but you went behind my back to court my sister and then decided to break her heart! I told you to go to a fucken pleasure house to get laid not to fuck my baby sister! ” Rhysand yelled, fury evident in how this neck strained from raising his voice. Azriel lowered his head in shame. “I should kick your ass right now, but your lucky Vi said not to, now sit. I’m not done with you yet.”

Rhys gestures to one of the armchairs that are placed in front of a very large bookcase. A round table sits between the two chairs, an intimate setting for friends to converse. Or for a High Lord to intimidate and test his guest. Azriel would know of such tactics, he’s been a witness to Rhysand's techniques.

Two glass cups with amber liquid are placed on the table, followed by its luxurious bottle. A bottle Azriels never seen before. Rhys catches his curiosity, “I hide the good stuff. This one's aged 50 years.” Azriel’s mouth waters. Of course, Rhys would keep the expensive stuff in his stash.

Rhys takes the seat across from his brother, his gaze piercing into him from above the rim of his glass. “Drink.”

Azriel eyes the glass in front of him. Temptation stared back at him in the form of delicious whiskey. He could really use a drink right now, to cure the hatred that he's brought upon himself.

He opens and closes his mouth, suddenly parched and wanting to soothe the dryness in his mouth.

“I’ll have some water.”

“Good choice,” Rhys hums in approval, and the house magically delivers Azriel’s water. Silence falls between them. The ticking of a grandfather clock is the only sound heard, counting down by the second. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Each male waiting for the other to break the silence. Azriel takes a sip from his glass, hands shaky as he brings the cup to his lips.

“Care for a smoke?”

Azriel chokes on his water, “sorry?” He questions wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, unsure if he’s heard correctly.

“Mirthroot, to ease the tension,” Rhys clarifies, indeed offering Azriel the drug that he smoked earlier, minus the hallucinogen. With a trick of the hands and some magic, the cigarette appears between Rhys’s fingers, bringing it to his lips, its cherry blazing red. He inhales. His chest expands with how deep he aspirates, holding the fumes within his lungs. Slow and calculated he exhales. Swirls of white smoke leave Rhys lips, landing directly into Azriels face. Its white tendrils carve through his wavy hair, coating each strand with its foul scent. A Lingering reminder of his mistakes.

Azriel swipes his hand in front of him, ridding the air of the smoke surrounding him. A slight cough erupts from his throat, “no, uh, I recently had a bad experience.” Azriel tries to joke, but it lands flatly based on Rhys' stone-cold expression.

“Azriel, what do you think your punishment should be for making my sister run away from her court?”

Oh, straight to it then.

“I do love her, Rhys. She's breathtaking in every way and I don’t deserve her.”

“No, you don’t!” Rhys bellowed, slamming his glass down on the table. “What. Is. Your. Punishment?” He seethed.

“Death. Because I can’t live without her, I deserve it knowing I’ve hurt her. That I’ve betrayed you and your trust. I’ve lied to you, taken your brotherly love for granted. I’ve killed for much less.” Azriel slouches in his seat, defeated but willing to take whatever his punishment shall be.

“You must truly love her then if you're willing to die. But I find that to be too swift of a punishment. Will torture suffice?”

Azriels eyes snap to his brother, a look of shock and slight terror in his hazel eyes. This wasn’t his brother anymore, but the words of a High Lord. A cunning, cruel High Lord.

Azriel doesn't say a word, he simply nods. Accepting his fate.

“Very well. You will watch over my sister. You will shadow her every move, her every outing. You will not speak with her or make yourself known. You will observe her interactions with other males. If she happens to love someone else then you will witness their beginning, middle and end. You will endure her loving someone else while she falls out of love with you. That will be your punishment. If you love her, truly, you will see her happy, even in the arms of another.”

Azriel swallowed the knot in his throat, shoving down the emotion that was a breathds away from coming forward. His eyes failed to meet his High Lord as he took a moment to process the terms. A slight sheen was coating his forehead, heat climbing up his spine at the thought of you with someone else. Clenching and unclenching his fists, his nails dug into his palms, creating half-moon shapes on his rough skin.

He did want to see you happy, and in love. You deserved it more than anyone he knew, but not with someone else. Azriels mind flashed back to every tender moment you two shared. Every soft touch under the table, away from prying eyes. Each stolen kiss when the two of you were last in leaving meetings. Morning snuggles after a night of intimacy before he snuck out of your bedroom. Flying together under the stars, in the middle of the night when the rest of the Velaris was sound asleep. He could keep those moments to himself, call upon them when he missed you. It’ll break his heart watching you fall out of love with him, but that was the whole point. And that's what Rhys meant by torture. It would happen slowly, painfully peeling the layers of his heart back piece by piece till nothing remained.

His refusal was on the tip of his tongue, “I can’t….” He shook his head, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. Letting out a shaky breath, “can I at least apologize without an audience, before I begin this punishment?”

Rhys nodded and flicked his wrist, dismissing his brother.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Azriel knocked on Elains bedroom door, determined to explain himself and confront her.

Her beaming smile when she opened the door caught him off guard. Was she happy? Happy for his misery?

“Hi Az,” she smiled wide and stepped aside to let him in. “No, I don’t want to give the wrong idea. I’ll be quick.” Azriel sighed, running his hand through his tousled hair. He winced as Elains scent off his fingers made its way to his nose. Reminding him that he needed to shower before he spoke to you. “Elain, I’m sorry for-”

“I’m not” she interrupted, her doe-like eyes staring up at him as she stepped closer. Her chest inches away from pressing against him. “The only thing I’m sorry for was the interruption and not bringing you to completion. I liked doing it, I wanted more,” she confessed, attempting to close the distance.

“What the fuck Elain!” Azriel's voice boomed as he jerked back, putting distance between them, hoping to get his point across that he did not reciprocate her feelings. His face twisted in disgust at her scandalous behavior. A side of her he had never seen before. He pointed his finger at her, “stay away from me.”

“You said you loved me.” Elain gulped, a tremble in her meek voice.

Azriel lowered his face to meet hers, eyes red with anger and unshed tears for the situation she put him in. “Those words were not meant for you, I feel nothing for you. And definitely not love. You know I adore her, you heard me tell her in the library and you still took advantage of my inebriation.”

“Az, I’m so sorr-”

Azriel lifted his hand, silencing her apology. He shook his head, upper lip curled in a snarl as he looked her up and down. Not even her beauty would mask the bitter taste she left in his mouth.

~~~~~~~

It was late when he finished speaking with Elain, yet every nerve in his body wanted to find you and apologize. Fix the turmoil he had created and start new. He knew it was better for you to sleep on it, let bygones be bygones. First thing tomorrow he’d reach out and smooth things over.

Azriel had been staring at your side of his bed for hours, running his hand across the empty space. He couldn't sleep without your warm body cuddled next to him. Or your soft breathing fanning across his chest. Your very soul had made a home within his heart, and he foolishly never bothered to secure the doors to keep you safe and nurture your love. You weren't a bird to be caged, but he sang your favorite song and each night you’d perch on his arm and stare into his hazel eyes with a look of love and admiration. Azriel was too scared to return the gaze. Too scared to lose the only person that brought him laughter and joy.

He buried his face in your pillow, inhaling the subtle scent of your hair that still lingered. A silent sob escaped his lips. It had been too long. He tried again, inhaling deeper, searching for those notes of magnolia and rose. Gripping the sheets tight in his fists, Azriel let his tears fall freely; your scent was fading. Loneliness followed him to bed that night. The cold of the night, a blanket holding him till he fell asleep. His heaving chest rocked him faster to the nightmares that would now plague him.

~~~~~~~

You sat in the lower levels of the library, the darkness, a familiar friend that brought you company in your solitude. The hum of Bryaxis slumber filled the air, a solemn soundtrack to accompany the tears that rolled down your cheeks. Sadness dotted the pages of the book that sat on your lap, rippled and wrinkled from the volume of your cries.

You could no longer read the pages, vision blurred and hazy. The more you researched the more it became a reality and in truth, you couldn’t stomach the thought. You’d have to visit Helion for clarification. How to undo or break it off before the other end sna-

A gentle shadow wrapped around your wrist, leaving a cool phantom kiss on your knuckles. You summoned a pocket of darkness and quickly sent the book away in a puff of black mist.

Azriel stepped out of a dark corner, concealed in the shadows like a true spymaster. “Love, I’m so fucking sorry. Please, forgive me,” he begged, as he took slow steps towards you.

“I know where I fall in your list of priorities, Azriel. You followed Rhys into his office like a loyal dog, and after that, you went to Elain and now you're here asking for forgiveness?”

Azriels brows furrow, questioning how you knew when you ran out of the house. “Your shadows,” you reply, already knowing his thought process- it seems they’ve betrayed their own master in favor of you. “They’ve told me everything. What you did with Elain and what you did after.”

“Did they tell you how much I love you? How much I crave you?” he cooed softly.

You shook your head. Those words were everything you wanted to hear ‘I love you,’ yet as your head moved side to side, you weren't sure if it was because you didn't believe the words or because It was too late. You wanted to believe him, fall into his arms, and easily forgive.

But your breathing quickens as your memory takes you back to last night. Azriels head thrown back as his hips thrust into Elains mouth. The pleasure that you hoped only you brought him, was written on his face; from the warmth of another female's mouth.

“Forgiveness? I can’t give that to you, not now. Not when every time I close my eyes all I see is your betrayal. All I hear are the words that I longed for mixed with the gagging of Elains throat as she took your cock down her mouth. I’m going to need time and space to forgive you. If the time ever comes.” You look to the ceiling, eyes stinging as you try to hold back the tears, your brave face faltering in vulnerability.

Azriel kneels in front of you, begging for your eyes to meet his. “I’ll spend forever apologizing and when you're ready to forgive me I'll be here. I’ll always be here, as long as it takes.”

“I heard what you said to Cass. That I was a mistake, and a fucking rebound,” you sniffled, fighting back the tears that once again tried to break free from your waterline.

Azriel doesn't miss the way you bite at your lip, the furrow between your brows. He's hurt you. Made you feel inadequate. You had always felt not good enough. Not good enough for your father, your mother. Not good enough to become High Lady of the Night Court.

Once Feyre and her sisters came into the picture you had no place. Feyre became High Lady, Rhysands equal. Not you. Not his flesh and blood. And now Azriels words cemented that feeling. You were the doormat of The Night Court, beloved by its citizens but stepped on by those that mattered to you, and that hurt more than you could bear.

“That's not what I meant! I wanted… I want to do things right. I want us to be together, finally. No more secrets, no hiding. It was a poor choice of words, and for that I’m sorry. But you are not a mistake. If you think you are, I'll spend the rest of my life proving to you that you're not.”

He reaches for your hand to offer a comforting touch. To soothe the doubt within your heart. If anything else, to touch you one last time and caress the smoothness of your skin.

“Don’t touch me. Not with those hands,” you hiss, jerking your hands away and crossing your arms over your chest. A deep sadness settles over you, knowing the hurt you've caused with the double meaning of your words. You knew it wasn’t due to the scars, those hands had been touching someone else. Bringing another female to climax not even 24 hours prior.

It was that single sentence that broke the spymaster. An aching pressure was felt in his chest, growing into a mass of the insecurity he once had. He couldn't hide the quiver in his bottom lip or the way he felt his stomach cave in itself. You didn’t want him to touch you. His hands were now tainted, dare he say more now than ever before.

A soft cry pushed past his lips as the dam holding his composure finally broke. He stood up and turned his back to you. Wiping away the tears that continued to fall. You quickly followed, itching to place a hand on his shoulder, soothing the turmoil within him.

Your caring nature screamed for you to comfort him and apologize. Causing someone's pain wasn’t in your character, a stark difference from most of your family. But you retracted your hand, and wrapped them around your middle, holding yourself together.

“Do you really hate me?” Azriel whispered as he pulled out his gloves from his back pocket, sliding them on in hopes of hiding the repulsion you felt towards them.

You hesitated for a moment if revealing the truth would change anything. If it would alter the path of your relationship into one that was worth fighting for. But there was no Azriel and Vi, so you’d tell him the truth.

“I hate the way you make me feel. I hate that you embarrassed me in front of my family. I hate that you can make me laugh and cry on the same night. Most of all I hate that you didn't choose me.” You end on an exhale, rubbing your arms up and down, attempting to soothe the heartache.

“This is it then? You’re just giving up on us? Let me at least fix this mess I’ve made. I promise I’ll do better,” he pleads, running his hands through his hair, lightly pulling at the root.

You close your eyes and release a heavy sigh, “There was never an ��us’ Azriel. As much as I wanted there-

“I want ‘us’ now,” he interrupts, closing the distance as he cups your face between his gloved hands. “Please, love. Give me this one last chance.”

Hazel eyes bore into yours pleading with every ounce of desperation in his voice, “please,” he breathes, gently nuzzling your nose with his. The puff of his breath cools the moisture on your lips, a chill that weakens your knees and for a moment you think to give in. It takes every ounce of control for you to wrap your delicate hands around his wrist and pull them away from your face. “I can’t do this,” you choke, shaking your head, trying to hold back the knot of emotion lodged in your throat as you rush past him, wiping at the lonely tears that have breached your waterline.

His happiness was fleeting, running into the arms of another. Except you didn’t. Not yet, not so soon. That was the difference, he realized. Where Azriel drowned in sorrow the moment you first left, his pain lingered on. Holding onto the pain meant; holding onto you. Holding onto what you once were. Whereas You faced the feeling head-on. You talked about what troubled you, about him, through the pain in your eyes and the wobble in your voice.

No matter how painful it was to relive, you pushed through. Felt deeply and wholly, head first into the unknown and you always managed to stay afloat. It scared him, how open you were with your feelings. Heart on your sleeve, willing to give and give. It was easy for you to love, to feel. And if you spoke of your sorrow so openly, then you’d heal faster and surely fall out of love just as quickly or worse forget him altogether.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Feyre was the one to scold Rhys for his actions towards his brother. The cunning High Lord indeed had a trick up his sleeve. One that would ensure Azriel had your best interests at heart. Rhys knew all too well how loyal and dutiful Azriel was to him and he wondered how far that loyalty ran. To what end would he go to please his High Lord? Rhys knew sending Azriel to spy on you was invading your privacy. And that would only anger you if you knew. Rhysand hoped though, that Azriels love for you was stronger than the loyalty he held for his High Lord. He was wrong. Azriel took the punishment without thinking how it would affect you. How following your every move would make you uncomfortable and you’d possibly resent Azriel for agreeing to such a thing.

~~~~~~~~~

The next few days passed in a blur. You had avoided the Inner circle at all costs, not quite ready to comment on the love triangle that unfolded under their nose. You tried to continue your work in Hewn City as you had been for centuries. Although the High Fae preferred you over Rhysand, you were finding it difficult to sway certain policies with Keir. You were a brilliant light in Hewn City, creating an education system that opened their eyes to diversity and understanding amongst their people. They no longer detested lesser fae, a tradition that had been extremely difficult to break. The residents were now free to travel out of the city and some even enjoyed Velaris. All the work you had done was more than Rhys could expect, yet you still felt as if you lacked purpose. It then occurred to you that perhaps you could fulfill that purpose in another court.

You winnowed back to Velaris instantly, running up the steps of the house of wind towards Rhysands office. Excitement in each step as you imagined a new opportunity at your fingertips. One that puts space between your fractured relationship with Azriel as well as a chance to step out of your brother's shadow and into your own. As soon as you opened the door to his office you stilled-causing the person who was trailing behind you to stumble into your back. Azriel straightened, careful not to touch you. “Apologies, I,” Azriel narrowed his eyes at the guest seated across from Rhys, “who are you?”

“Kit!” you blurted out, bouncing to him and embracing him in a crushing hug. Kit wraps his arms around your waist as your hands clasp around his neck. Azriels eyes zero in on where Kit’s fingers dig into your sides, noticing the small caress against your skin. And how he’s pulled your body so tight against his, relishing in your radiate beauty. Or the way his chest expands as he inhales the scent of your hair. “Good to see you again Princess. I was just talking to Rhysand about a proposition.”

Kit’s gaze lands on the Shadowsinger, “ forgive me, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Kit, son of Kallias and Vivienne of The Winter Court.” He extends his palm in a friendly greeting towards Azriel. Ever respectful and kind, just as an Heir should be. Azriel runs his eyes over the Princeling, scrutinizing every inch of the male; from his snow-white hair to his pompous pale blue shirt. Even down to how costly his shoes must have been. Seconds passed and Azriel just stared the Prince down, a challenge in his deadly eyes.

“Please excuse my spymaster, Azriel, he's recently gone through a break-up.” Rhysand shoots a glare at the Shadowsinger with a look of disappointment.

A muscle feathered in Azriels jaw. He didn’t like this, not one bit. Kit touched you. Touched what once belonged to him. His shadows curled around his ear whispering all the ways Azriel could kill him. He saw the look in his eyes, longing and desire. Rhys no doubt divulged that break-up comment to open the doors for Kit to swoop right in.

Your eyes drop to the floor, shifting on your feet uncomfortably. Tension in the room doubled as the silence filled the awkwardness.

Kits' attention shifted to you. Noticing your downturned lips and slumped shoulders. Things must have gotten worse between you and Azriel. His icy blue eyes snapped towards the brooding male. “How unfortunate, that when you looked at her you did not feel cauldron blessed to have her. In that case, she must not have been yours to keep,” he pulled you close around the waist, “hopefully she’ll be another males blessing.” Kit smiled down at you, his dimples deep and adorable. You couldn’t help but melt into his side, his touch offering a comfort that you desperately needed.

A dangerous growl ripped through Azriels throat. He rolled his shoulders back, craning his neck from side to side, cracking the tension in his bones. The loud pop of his knuckles rang in your ears as Azriel flexed his fingers into a fist. You’d seen this rage in his eyes many times; right before hand-to-hand combat in the camps.

You quickly glanced at your brother, pleading mind to mind. "Stop this, they’ll kill each other.” Rhys sat back in his chair, legs spread wide and relaxed, "I’ll bet you all the jewels in Velaris Azriel breaks that pretty boy in two."

“Watch your mouth!” Azriel seethed, as he stalked forward, a predator hunting his prey.

Kit moved you to stand behind him, shielding you with his body. He did not back down from confrontation and did not cower. A fighter with words that will knock his opponent where it hurts the most. For wounds heal but poisonous words rot from the inside out. Latching to the mind to burrow and breed the thoughts keeping the nightmares and failures alive.

With every drop of ferocity that flowed through his veins, he struck at the jugular. Pouring salt on the wound of Azriels inferiority complex with malicious intent to hollow him out. “No Shadowsinger! You’re no Prince, nor are you a High Lord or King of any Kingdom. You do not own property and you are not wealthy. You offer nothing to a Princess but anguish and a filthy cock that's been between the legs and mouths of cheap women. You survive by the scraps your friend gives you out of pity for being a bastard born. It is you who needs to watch your tongue. It is you who needs to remember your place.”

Azriel's face was unreadable as he took the insult with his head held high. His breathing turned rapid, with every second that passed. Azriel wanted to wipe that smug look off the princeling's face and scrub the floor with his perfect teeth. Break every finger that had touched you, gouge out the blue eyes that had fantasized about you.

The second Kit took his eyes off Azriel to gawk at you. Azriel pulled Kit by the collar of his shirt, holding him in place as his hammer fist connected with his jaw over and over again. Adrenaline flowed through his body, as knuckles met solid ice beneath the flesh and blood of the heir. Blood sprayed Kit's shirt as a cut splayed open below his eye, most likely from Azriels rings. Kit's head bobbed around lifeless, blood slipping down the corner of his mouth. Azriel couldn’t stop the onslaught of his attack, as he continued to break the heir's nose with a resounding crack.

“Azriel stop!” you screamed, throwing your fist at his back, pulling at his shirt in an attempt to stop the assault. Azriel tried to stop but Kit's crimson smile taunted him each time his fist landed against his pale skin, enraging him more.

“Shit!” Rhys scrambled out of his chair, using his dark power to throw Azriel off the Prince and into the farthest wall. Crashing to the ground Azriels vision cleared, his heart sank at the image of you on the floor cradling the bleeding Prince in your arms, tending to his battered face. “Vi, I’m so sorry I.. I didn’t,-”

“You brutish Illyrian bastard, when will you stop breaking things?!” You looked at Azriel with glossy eyes and blood that wasn't yours smeared against your bosom.

“Pack the rest of your bags sister. You’ll be living in the Winter Court for the foreseeable future. Re-shaping their crumbling Agriculture and stabilizing their infrastructure for future prosperity. The work you’ve done in Hewn City is remarkable, I’m sure you’ll do great things for Kallias and Vivienne. ” Rhys gaze never left Azriel as he delivered the news to you.

‘I’m sorry Az. This was the proposition brought to me today. Vi needs this, she's no longer happy here. And as her brother, I have to do what's best for her.’

Rhys saw the tears well in Azriels eyes. If he hadn't been shattered to pieces before, then this would disintegrate him into ash. Left alone to wander the skies aimlessly, letting the wind tousle and puncture him as he reached for the sun's brightest ray of light.

“Take a good look at him, Vi, He’ll no longer be allowed in The Winter Court after today's attack,” your head whipped from Azriel to Kit, “My father will ban him from ever setting foot on his land again.” A sly grin crossed Kit’s face, victorious in his plan, “Don’t worry shadowsinger, we’re just borrowing her and I promise I’ll keep her safe.” Azriel snarled as Kit grimaced, pushing against your chest for your comforting touch.

He’d fallen into Kit's trap so easily, allowing his anger to blind him from his true intentions. He didn’t even raise his hand to deflect the blows or bother punching back. He took the punches and played victim, the scheming ice Prince. He knew how it looked. The eloquent Prince who had a future and armies at his beck and call.

A Court that he would one day rule for centuries with a palace to call his own, a throne and crown made of diamonds and sapphires. A Night Court Princess turned High Lady to warm his bed and give him Heirs to sit on his throne. Azriel couldn’t offer you any of that. He was a bastard-born Illyrian who tortured people for a living. You deserve a fulfilling life full of happiness, laughter, and love.

You were leaving because of him, and he decided then, that he wouldn’t stop you. It would make him sick, but he’d survive and the sun would rise one day. The future he dreamed of was slowly fading to black and he couldn't imagine a world without you, but you were leaving. He couldn't think of a way to stop the bleeding or to fix what he broke. He couldn’t hold you back. You were a princess, when you were meant to be a queen.

“Throw me in the prison Rhys I don’t care, but if I have to watch her fall in love with him, by the God’s he’ll die by my blade before he lays another hand on her. Punishment be damned” Azriels words pierced through Rhys mind like a violent storm, destroying everything in its way. Rhys chuckled, grinning like a madman towards Azriels words, “there you are brother.” He stretched out his hand to help Azriel get up off the floor, ‘I know now that you love her, but she still needs space. Please respect her decision.’

Rhys jerked his chin towards the door. “Now get out.”

Azriel walked towards the door, looking over his shoulder for one last glance at you. Even with red staining your face, you were still the most beautiful female he had ever seen, yet he took every moment with you for granted. The cauldron was either cruel or he had terrible luck. How is it that his first and ever love would ruin him? How was he to move on from this? He realized too late that he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. You had completely shattered his heart and soul, taking the bleeding organ in your hands. “Be happy, love,” he spoke softly, “and for what it’s worth, I have always loved you.” You saw a lone tear run down his cheek as he turned and walked away.

Part 3 coming soon.....

A/n: Thank you for reading.

Taglist: @fuckthatfeeling @celtic-shadow-wolf @crazylokonugget @leyannrae @rehua @readychilledwine @ellievickstar @siriusblackssun @saltedcoffeescotch @b0xerdancer @tothestarsandwhateverend @anainkandpaper @em-marlenesversion @lilah-asteria @mybestfriendmademe @rogersbarnesxx @nayaniasworld @sam-san-sam @yeahimcrying @olive-main

[aajjks]

The Conqueror (XXI)

Synopsis: He had conquered everything, anything but your heart.

Pairings: Yandere!King Jungkook x Commoner!servant Reader.

warnings. yándèrè thèmès, därk trïggèrïng thèmès, jüngkôôk ïs crâzy, öbsëssïön, mêntïöns öf kïllïng, yn ïs gèttïng ströngèr, a BÏG STÖRM ÏS CÖMÏNG.

series masterlist.

note. plz hi, forgive me for the delay xx send asks for tc characters, send feedback n ENJOY! Please share your thoughts about this chapter because I’m excited. Also, I’m removing the people from the tag list who are not taggable anymore. So if you want to be tagged, just reply to this post.

taglist: @mageprincess7 @starsggukk @koremis @minshookie29 @sana-b @oonaaurora @jeonsweetpea @sugaslittlekookies @outro-kook @kthyg @lunaashes @debicaptain-saturn @laurynne5 @captainsjoongs @myblackconfessions @namjooncrabs @natalie-rdr @angelicasdre @mermaidtea @foulnightharmony @ungodlyjoon @quechulitaaa @telepathytae @j3alous-ang3l @bunzom @1-in-abillion @breadgeniedope @jiminie-08 @artgukk @lovesthetword @bunijmin @pinkcherrybombs @afangirllikeme-blog @twilight-love-nochu-main @wedarkacademia @hollxe1 @bighitfics @darkuni63 @golden-thv @investedreader @sweetempathprunetree @koocreampie

You couldn’t sleep last night. But it’s not like you have been able to sleep peacefully without nightmares haunting you or the thought of Jungkook- the monster taking over your mind every time you try to sleep.

But this time it wasn’t just his thoughts, but rather his words- what was he talking about when he said that he was going to tell you the truth about your father, and you’d start to would hate him?

You have nothing to do here, all you have to do is sit around, and… dread the thought of him coming back to you. This chamber is so large but all you feel is suffocated.

The golden chandeliers, the silk bed sheet and the sherbet right next to your bed, it all feels too much- you’re in a golden cage.

And you cannot escape.

Yeah, all you can do is sit around, but you’re not willing to do that anymore. If you cannot escape, you just might as well try to walk around this palace, so maybe you’ll feel a sense of control over your own life.

You decide to get up from your bed you take a few steps you look at yourself in the mirror that’s standing, right in front of you, you look so different in these royal clothes, but.. you don’t feel good about yourself.

What did he even see in you? Sure you’re attractive, but there are a lot of more attractive women than you, especially his consorts.

You are nothing when it comes to them- they are the most gorgeous women in Goryeo.

You would feel insecure, but you don’t care- you want him to leave you so you can escape and leave your life freely but in the few days you have realized one thing: that’s just not possible anymore.

This king will never leave you.

You sigh, crying anymore will do you no good, last night, you even came to a conclusion that you have to face your destiny now.

And fearlessly.

As you open your chamber’s door and walk outside you hear commotion. The guards guarding your chamber immediately hear your footsteps, and they bow their head to you and respect.

You visibly cringe.

You lower your head in embarrassment and just make your way through the golden wing. You keep walking the noises become clearer.

“The Kings wedding is in a week. Can you believe this? I thought he would never marry- at least not someone like her.” a court lady is talking to her fellow and you cannot help but listen..

What wedding? And in Less than a week?

Your heartbeat rises because you know they’re talking about you, especially when they mention someone like her with a scoff, and the hint of jealousy, and disgust in their voices, of course you can see their faces.

“yes I cannot believe that it’s not one of the consorts-especially considering their background.. I don’t know what the king is doing, but it’s a foolish move.”

You Cannot help but feel a little insulted at their remarks, you clear your throat and as soon as the maids notice you, you can feel the color from their face drain. All staff stand in alert as you make your presence known.

But you’re not even a queen yet, so why are they behaving like this?

“M-My lady- I’m so sorry… what are you doing here? Do you need anything?” One of them stutters out while the other one is avoiding eye contact with you.

you want to roll your eyes because you’re done with everyone walking all over you like you won’t do anything and now you’ve decided that you’ll fight back against everyone that will disrespect you.

Including Jungkook.

It’s not your fault that he chose you. “what were you guys talking about? What wedding?” The real question is what the fuck they’re talking about.

They gasp, and one of them finally gathers the courage to look into your eyes.

“Y-Your wedding with the- Baby, they’re talking about our wedding.”

Goosebumps.

You tilt your head to look behind you, and you see him standing. With a smirk on his face, but he looks visibly livid. You’re not surprised because he always looks so crazy.

But what the fuck is he doing here? He must be walking here to bother you once again, but this time you’re here.

“Y-Your Majesty!!” The whole staff present cower. Soon you see them all bow again, but this time all of their heads hang low.

Jungkook is right here- speak of the devil, and he shall appear-or more likely? think of the devil, and he shall appear.

Delusional. He’s delusional if he thinks that you’re going to marry him.

“what wedding?” At this point you sound like a broken record, but he doesn’t mind that, instead, he chooses to focus his attention on the two court ladies that you were talking to just now.

“what were you saying about yn just now? I would like to hear it from your own mouth or I cut off your tongue right here.”

Your eyes widen when he threatens to cut off their tongue with a huge smile on his face. He heard the whole conversation like you.

They both start to shake, you can even smell their fear from here, what the fuck is he doing? All he does is traumatize people. “W-What- no- DO NOT INTERRUPT ME YN.” His voice booms as he cuts you off.

You can hear a few whimpers, people are scared.

You want to roll your eyes but it won’t really bring a difference and he always does what he wants

Jungkook is still glaring at the two, “COME ON NOW, SPEAK UP!” he commands, and his author voice, you go silent, because how could he scream at you like this?

He cannot be serious about cutting their tongue.

He’s got his hands folded behind his back and he’s standing tall, all intimidating. His dark curly hair makes him more intimidating. His figure is definitely huge.

He’s quite literally a beast.

“Y-Your majesty pl-please forgive us. It was an honest mistake.. we are so sorry please- please forgive us!” You watch them as they fall to their knees and bow to Jungkook- their shaking bodies make you pity them.

No one should ever have to beg for their life like this. no matter what they have done and even though they have insulted, you definitely felt stringed but you still don’t want them to die.

The fear in their voice will haunt you forever- they are about to die because of you. You have to stop this.

So you decide to swallow your pride, before he can say anything or take out his sword, you can see his hand reaching for it.

Come yn speak up!

“J-Jungkook.” You call out his name, oh, your heart is going to burst for sure, all of this is so overwhelming and intense but you have to keep your composure if you want to save their life.

You’ve never called him by his name.

And he knows that because the way he looks at you immediately has you a little creeped out, he looks starstruck, “J-Jungkook please don’t punish them..”

Your tongue feels bitter as you say his name. “please.” You say once again. It’s so hard for you beg to him but if you have to save someone’s life, you will do it.

“J-Jungkook.”

Did you just call out his name? Oh, he must be hallucinating. Because you would never call out his name like that so softly. You haven’t even said his name.

And even if you have, he doesn’t remember.

“J-Jungkook please don’t punish them..”

It’s like you can hear his thoughts because you decide to call out his name once again, and all of his anger melts down, he looks at you in surprise.

Fuck.

He feels his knees, go weak as you call out his name- he’s been dying to hear you say it. His hand from his sword attached to his pants loosens.

You’re so kind- they and they deserve to die but here you are begging for their life, even though he doesn’t agree with you, but since you asked so nicely, who is he to deny you?

“Oh baby…” he coos, walking towards you, He cannot focus on anyone right now because you just called out his name so kindly for the first time.

He wants to hear you say it again

He can move the mountains for you. “Yn- YOUR MAJESTY I’M SO SORRY FOR INTERRUPTING YOU LIKE THIS, BUT THERE’S SOMETHING YOU SHOULD KNOW.”

Oh he’s really going to kill someone now, jungkook scoffs as he halts his steps. “what the fuck is wrong with you? How dare you interrupt me?”

Jungkook looks at the guard instead now, glaring him and if looks could kill he’d be six feet under now. “BARK!” He screams.

“T-There’s an intruder in the Palace! H-He’s asking for the Chief Consort… He is calling her name out like a crazy man.”

What the fuck, he feels his eye twitch and Jungkooks jaw clenches with anger, All of the people are confused and you gasp.

Someone is definitely going to die tonight, Jungkooks sure because he knows for a fact that he is here for you, even though he has no idea about this man.

Without uttering a word, Jungkook storms off.

This man has just come to his own death.

[myocsfanfictions]

THE WRATH OF FIRE

House of the Dragon Fanfiction

MASTERLIST

Princess Ysilla Targaryen is the only daughter of Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lady Rhea Royce. The affection that she felt for her mother was strong, while her father had never been there, acting as if Ysilla was not even his. But she was. The dragon egg that had been put in her cradle hatched. An outcast of a dragon was born. A dragon with no legs. An outcast of a dragon for and an outcast of a dragon rider. Ysilla’s hair was dark but streaked with white. She was a Targaryen, and her wrath was not different from the one that burned inside the members of the House of the Dragon.

CHAPTER 1

Runestone the seat of ancient House Royce and the Bronze Kings. Ysilla descended from two lines of kings; the Royces and the greatest of them all, the dragon lords, the Targaryens.

Runestone is the seat of ancient House Royce and the Bronze Kings. Ysilla descended from two lines of kings: the Royces and the greatest of them all, the dragon lords, the Targaryens.

Ysilla’s mother was the Lady of Runestone, and her father was Prince Daemon Targaryen, the brother of Viserys Targaryen, the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Her father was never in Runestone; Ysilla knew that he had matters to attend to in King's Landing.

"Mother," she said, running to her mother, who had just come back from her hunt.

"My sweet," her lady mother greeted her, getting down from her horse.

"My egg hatched, Mother!" Ysilla said happily, unable to stay still. A strand of her streaked black and white hair fell against her face.

Her mother seemed not to like those words as she moved so that her back was facing her daughter, tending to her horse. Ysilla was only five, but she could understand that her mother had no love for dragons. Or Targaryens.

"I have to write to Father," she insisted, hoping that her mother would turn to her. He'd want to know that my egg hatched."

"Stop wanting to please him, Ysilla." The girl lowered her eyes, fixing her gaze on her feet. "He adores King's Landing more than both of us." Ysilla felt her eyes stung with tears, and to keep herself from crying, she bit her lips hard.

"I thought that he was not coming back because of the war," Ysilla said with pain in her voice. It was because she remembered that her father was fighting on the Stepstones.

"Yes," her mother answered, "It's been three years now. But there was no war before."

That was true. Ysilla had seen her father very few times, and when her uncle, the King, invited her to King's Landing, she had little memory of him.

"It is because of my hair," Ysilla muttered. He does not love me because of my hair." She knew that she was different from other Targaryens, with their long silver hair. Ysilla did not have it. She was different, and she knew it was the reason why her father never went to Runestone for a visit. But she thought that her dragon could have changed it, that maybe her father would have loved her for that.

"Look at me," her mother said sternly, but Ysilla did not move, "Look at me, Ysilla." When her mother insisted, the girl did as she was told, hoping not to cry. "You are more than him. In your veins flows the blood of the First Men. Be proud of that as you are of your dragon."

"I am proud, Mother," Ysilla complained.

"Then stop seeking your father's approval," her mother said, standing strong. You don't need him; remember this."

Ysilla lowered her eyes again, "I will."

We remember those were House Royce's words. They were strong and full of will, as her mother was.

Ysilla didn't feel strong. She felt lonely and forgotten. Her name was Targaryen, and the blood of old Valyria flowed in her veins as much as the First Men's did. But nobody cared about her, not even her own Father.

The little lady went back to her chamber, holding her tears because she knew that she was not supposed to cry. Her mother didn't want her to shed tears for her Father. Ysilla closed the wooden door with carved runes in it, sliding down until she found herself sitting on the ground.

She wanted to be strong like her lady Mother. She wanted for her to be proud of her daughter, but she missed her Father. She wanted to talk to him. She wanted to hold him. And she knew that he wanted the same thing. He was only busy with the matters of King's Landing.

Suddenly, she heard a low noise and a little growl. Drying her tears, Ysilla walked towards the little cradle next to the fire. Her dragon was there. She thought the Maester was tending it.

"I don't think it is going to make it, my lady," Ysilla frowned when she heard the voice of the old man from behind the door. He was talking with her mother.

"And why's that?" Ysilla's mother said while the girl kept looking at the cradle. From where she was, she could only see the little black wings moving.

"The beast is deformed, my lady," Ysilla frowned, standing up from her position. What was the meaning of that? That was her dragon. After so long her dragon egg had finally hatched, it could not die.

She got closer, and there it was. He was as big as a cat, with dark scales and purple reflections, as purple as its eyes. It looked at her, his eyes fixed on her as if he was looking inside her soul. It was beautiful.

The little hatchling made a sound before trying to get closer. At that point, she noticed. It was struggling to do so because it was born without legs.

"We have to find a way to tell her it won't survive."

Ysilla's eyes remained fixed on the little dragon. No one believed he could survive because he was different, only because he was like her.

After a moment, the hatchlings found a way to get closer, moving more like a snake than a dragon, but he was fighting.

"You will survive," she promised, reaching out so that her fingers could brush his scales. "I'll make sure of that."

___________________________________________________________

Next 》

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[writingjourney]

Small Beauties

Life at court while beneficial to your station is above all else one thing – unbearably lonely. With a youth spent in unreciprocated longing, the trap of an unhappy marriage, illness, loss and untimely farewells there is one thing that does not change throughout the years – your infatuation and blossoming friendship with Otto Hightower. After all is said and done, are you not both deserving of the very thing you never allowed yourselves to have?

pairing: Otto Hightower x fem!reader // rated E, 18+ MDNI

content: 19k words in five parts + epilogue, pining, forbidden romance, mostly gentle!otto, talks about pregnancy/infertility, minor character death, grief, religious themes (faith of the seven), smut (thigh riding, hand job, oral sex f!receiving, p in v, unprotected, coming inside, mild hand kink)

This story is available on AO3, split into five chapters ♡

1 The Maiden Days

Otto Hightower lifts the ornate cup to his lips, taking a lazy sip before he slowly lowers it yet again. A crimson stain lingers on the soft skin, the Dornish wine momentarily painting them red. You are transfixed by the sight. No matter how often he repeats this simple action it never fails to incite a war in your chest – heart beating rapidly, your lungs fluttering with every breath.

You fold your hands in your lap to ground yourself, observing him from your spot on the cool stone bench that sits at the far end of the balcony. Around you, a handful of other young ladies has erupted into lively chatter, most of them a few years younger than you.

“Ser Alister is so very handsome,” one of them chirps, giggling under her breath as they all turn to look at the man. “A fine knight, tall and strong and most honourable. His blue eyes are captivating.”

“Have you seen Ser Matthos? I hear that he has never lost a battle, the strongest knight in all the Riverlands.”

“Who do you admire, my lady?”

The voice resounds close to your ear – your friend, the Lady Emeline. You answer in a low hum, feigning contemplation. But your eyes still follow his every movement. Often times the lord will keep to himself, observing these gatherings more so than participating. His auburn hair shimmers golden in the warm sunlight and you are so very grateful to behold him outside of the gloomy chambers of the castle.

“Ser Otto,” you whisper.

They all burst into laughter like you told a hilarious joke, guffawing quite unladylike which garners the attention of the entire balcony, including the man you have been speaking of.

“I am not jesting,” you inform them.

Their laughter stops at once. Emeline’s hand wraps around your forearm. “But, you cannot be serious?”

Your eyes stay on the Lord whose solemn gaze still holds you captive. “The Lord Hand is handsome and tall, he is intelligent and experienced in life. An honourable man who serves our realm most faithfully. Any young lady would be lucky to be wed to him.”

“But he is… old,” she whispers now.

“And he is the Lady Alicent’s father,” another girl adds.

You decide to end your rhapsody, if only because you know they could never understand your infatuation. The Lord Hand is not older than half of the men your father is considering as a match for you, even though he certainly appears to be wise beyond his years. Recently widowed and in no want of a new wife, you are well aware that all your dreams of being with him are hopeless. However, this knowledge does nothing to quench your desires as his eyes remain fixed on you for longer than is appropriate. You confidently hold his gaze, even as your heart threatens to burst from your chest. Finally, he averts his eyes, just as the red stain slowly fades from his pale lips.

✦ ✧ ✦

Your father has been pacing since the sun began to wander westwards, his arms crossed behind his back as he fiddles with the rings on his fingers. You’ve seen this nervous gesture plenty of times in your life, only this time his distress has been inadvertently caused by you. Not even the splendid view over the prospering gardens of King’s Landing seems to calm his agitation. “She is of age, she has been of age for long enough that anything but a swift betrothal would be considered shameful, especially now that we are here.”

“Surely that should not be an issue, my lord?” your mother asks. “I hear from the other ladies that she has many a handsome suitor.”

“Suitors, yes, but no promising match. We have to entertain the possibility of sending her to the Riverlands or even the North, though I would prefer for her to stay in the capital. It is always useful to have a direct line to the crown.”

“Perhaps a Lannister?” she asks. “Or Ser Alister? All the young girls seem enamoured with him and his father sits on the king’s council.”

“What about Ser Otto?” you interject.

“The Lord Hand?” Your father barks out a laugh. “He will not have you, girl.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are not important enough, child, and most certainly not handsome enough to tempt a man like him. If he harboured any interest in you he would have already expressed it.”

“My lord.”

You startle at the sound of the deep voice that haunts your very existence these days, followed by the crunching of heavy footsteps on the gravely path. Your face instantly drains of all colour until you can feel the blood rushing back to your cheeks tenfold. You and your mother are seated underneath a rose-colored pavilion but the shade does nothing to cool your heated skin. At the arrival of your guest, you both stand for a polite greeting. From your spot close beside him you make out a familiar pair of leather boots and the ornate hem of a set of dark green garbs, the elaborate pattern of which you could describe in great detail from memory alone.

You cannot bring yourself to meet his eyes.

“My Lord Hand,” your father greets. “To what do I owe the honour of such an unexpected visit?”

“I was informed of your arrival, my lord. I deeply regret that I was kept busy for most of the day – as you well know from your own time in the capital the council never truly rests.” He stops for a moment when your father chuckles, then his voice softens. “My ladies.”

“My lord, what a pleasure to see you,” your mother replies. “It has been nigh a decade.”

“Indeed, my lady. I trust that your lord father is in good health?”

“He is,” she says with a playful smile. “The only ailment he cannot quite soothe is his growing ennui. He so loved to meddle in politics, now all he gets to dictate are his servants while my brother commands his army.”

The Lord Hand gives a kindhearted chuckle and you can almost feel the deep rumbling of his chest vibrating against you, a quake that has your own body trembling helplessly. You realise that every second of silence raises the risk of appearing unseemly to the lord, and so you finally glance up at him, only to find his green eyes already resting on you.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” you say, wishing the earth would open up and swallow you whole.

“My lady.” The corner of his mouth bends into a kind if not sympathetic smile. He must have heard his name coming from your lips upon his arrival and you cannot help but suspect that he finds the suggestion pitiable.

For the remainder of their conversation you stay quiet, withdrawing into yourself to nurse your deep embarrassment and sneaking glances at the lord only when you’re certain that his attention lies elsewhere. Soon your father follows the Lord Hand back inside the keep for a private audience and you remain seated in the gardens with a broken heart. Your mother inquires about the knights and lords you have met in your time in King’s Landing, riddling you with questions about potential marriage candidates.

She does not ask about Otto Hightower.

✦ ✧ ✦

The lady Alicent pulls the book from the shelf ever so cautiously in the way that she was taught to handle the ancient tomes that reside in her lord father’s library. You stand by her side, reading the spines of the books in the collection that his lordship as well as his predecessors have accumulated over the past centuries. Storybooks and fairytales are scarce, you are quite certain that you have read all of them thrice at this point, and so you and your friend have moved on to the historical accounts that the septa never taught you about.

The Lord Hand is eyeing you from his desk where he is taking care of his correspondence, his brow furrowed in deep concentration as the quill scratches the ink into the parchment. Alicent, who has retrieved the book by now, presents the title to him.

“Hm, a good pick, my daughter.”

You both smile at him and his eyes stay on you for so long that you are inclined to stall your departure even as Alicent makes her way to the door. You have never been very subtle about your feelings for the lord and for the past few moons he has indulged you by meeting your eyes more often than would be deemed appropriate should anyone notice.

“A word, my lady?” he asks, sensing your apprehension.

You glance at Alicent who merely gives you one of her kind smiles. “I shall wait for you in the godswood.”

A nervous sensation spreads in your limbs, numbing your fingers as you link your hands behind your back. His lordship stands and beholds you for a moment, his gaze betraying none of his thoughts as it flits between your face and the rest of your form. You stand still, meeting his eyes as you are wont to do, trying to uphold an air of confidence and maturity beyond your years.

“I wanted to congratulate you on your betrothal, my lady,” he says eventually.

“Thank you, my lord.” You hesitate for a moment in surprise as he is the first to bring up the subject since your father presented you with the news. “I was not aware that it had been announced already.”

He sits down behind his desk, neatly folding his long hands on its surface. “I assisted your father with the arrangements. The match was my suggestion.”

“Oh.” You feel your limbs trembling, the realisation like a knife in your chest. “I see.”

“I know he may not be who you dreamed for yourself,” he continues with a knowing expression that softens his features in a way that makes you want to weep.

“My lord has a keen, observant eye.”

“Indeed I have noticed your glances, my lady.” His brows pull together in a display of almost fatherly sympathy but it only makes the knife twist and sink in deeper. “And while I am flattered by your… infatuation, I must point out that this arrangement spares you a life by the side of a man much older than yourself. Ser Alister is in the prime of his youth, a well-favoured knight, and he will make a fine husband for many years to come.”

You nod, swallowing the tears that threaten to spill from your eyes. “I am fortunate to be betrothed to such a brave and noble knight. And yet **I feel that I must point out that you are being most unkind to yourself, my lord. Your age only adds to your character, your wisdom and gentle disposition are unmatched by any knight I have met in my life. If you ever chose to marry again, the lady would be most fortunate indeed.”

“Your generous words are appreciated, my lady.” He gives a smile that feels more genuine than the ones you have seen before. You refuse to get lost in the way it makes his eyes glow in the light of the candles. “May the Seven watch over you and bestow you with a prosperous future.”

You swallow around the tears that are painfully forming in your eyes, willing the corners of your mouth to return his kindness. “Thank you, my lord. I am certain with your blessings they will.”

2 The Wedded Days

“Seven blessings on your hunt, my lord. May your arrows fly true.”

You press a kiss to your husband’s pale cheek, the courtyard a cacophony of neighing horses, shouting men and clattering weapons in your ears. The hour is early and yet the keep is already alive as it prepares for a day that promises fresh game and other spoils of the woods.

He mounts his horse with a chuckle. “Can you not hear the deer already bawling? They are quivering with fear.”

You fight off a grimace, feeling sorry for the poor animals, and wave after the party as they depart for the Kingswood. A few other ladies who have bid their husbands farewell are waiting with you, waving until the last horse is out of sight and quiet settles in.

Your husband of three years recently inherited his father’s titles and has risen significantly in the king’s esteem ever since. As a proficient hunter since his childhood days it is no surprise that he was invited to join the party. You are surprised, however, when you encounter the Lord Hand on your way back inside, the quiet of the keep’s interiors enveloping you most welcomely.

“Are you not joining the hunt, my lord?” you ask when he stops to greet you.

“No, my lady, it is a small party.”

“His Grace would leave without his most trusted advisor?”

“His Grace has little use for me in the Kingswood, my lady. I am tending to important matters of the realm during his absence.”

You nod in understanding. Naturally the Lord Hand knows to prioritise his tasks but that does not mean you cannot tempt him to a small diversion. “Perhaps his lordship would allow me to keep him company, then?”

He scoffs mildly. “I hardly think that is appropriate, my lady.”

“Why not?”

The lord stops in his tracks, his gaze suddenly softening. “My lady.”

You raise your brows. “Are you concerned about matters of propriety?”

“I am concerned about the matter of your propriety, my lady, yes.”

“If you are alluding to…” You pause and he quirks an eyebrow, almost as if in amusement. “If you are alluding to my childish infatuation with you, my lord, I can assure you that it has long since passed. All I wish is for some company. It has been quite some time since I had the chance to enjoy the sunrise on a morning walk and I merely wish to share the beautiful view the gardens offer at first light.”

For a brief moment, the lord regards you as though he is trying to decipher one of his books. Eventually he tips his head to the side, locking his arms behind his back. “Very well, my lady. Since you are so fond of the gardens, I shall let you lead the way.”

You chuckle good-naturedly. “That is only because his lordship is so busy with politics that he hardly leaves the council chamber. Something he has in common with my husband.”

“There are duties that require an environment free of diversions, my lady.”

“Beauty is a diversion, then, my lord?”

“It most certainly is.”

You exit the keep onto a rather large balcony, the view opening up to the gardens that are still draped in deep shadows as the sun slowly rises above the horizon. A clear sky stretches out in purples, pinks and oranges, their pastel hues blending into each other with the soft brushstrokes of an artist. The sight takes your breath away for several seconds and when you come to, you notice that the Lord Hand is observing you.

“A marvel, don’t you agree?” you ask.

Otto Hightower smiles softly, his eyes crinkling beautifully in their corners. “A marvel indeed.”

The pink on your cheeks must mirror that of the sky when you descend the stairs and tread along the path. The cool air is not unwelcome even though your gown with its southern cut is not meant to keep you warm. You have only known the warm climate of the capital, hardly remembering your time before you were sent here as a ward, but you imagine that this is what the earliest signs of fall would feel like further up North.

“I don’t think I have properly conversed with anyone but my own servants in over a fortnight,” you muse as your footsteps lead you past flowering bushes, their blossoms still closed from the night. “Not even my lord husband has any time to spare for me these days, so busy is he with the council and his… lordly activities.”

“My lady, if you suffer from feelings of loneliness, I am sure we can make some arrangements to ease that affliction.” The tall lord's footsteps are heavier than yours, a reassuring sound that follows you along the path. “Perhaps we can send for one of your sisters.”

“I do not wish to talk to my sisters who I hardly know and hardly remember.” You pause, trying to hide your disdain as you let your hand hover under a particularly beautiful flower. “My lord, I so long for easy conversation or even just the silent companionship that being in the mere presence of a familiar person offers. Since becoming a wife my social circle has only grown smaller which I find quite odd.”

“Perhaps it simply lacks the carefree nature of childhood,” he says wisely.

“Perhaps it simply lacks another intelligent being to converse with.”

“In which case you flatter me, my lady, by seeking my companionship.”

You cannot hide the small smile that slips onto your face. “I have always enjoyed listening to you, my lord. Your insight and wisdom in any conversation over a shared meal has taught me more than my septa during her lessons.”

He rewards you with a deep chuckle and you glance at him, the way his usually stoic face lights up in a smile. “I should think that your septa did a fine job in raising a knowledgeable, kind-hearted young lady.”

“She did, you are quite right. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.” You continue to walk, trying to focus back on the sun that wanders along with you. “However, I cannot deny that I regret the ways in which time has passed. I have lost my friends to motherhood while I myself have been less than fortunate in this area. I now suffer the consequences of these shortcomings.”

“There is still time, my lady. You are quite young.”

The smile you give him is tinged with sadness, even though you appreciate his kind words. In truth, you are close to giving up all hope to ever conceive. You have been married for three years now and in all that time you have not once been with child. Not for a lack of efforts from your lord husband nor from your unwillingness to endure said efforts, no matter how unenjoyable you found them. As of late, however, he has shifted those efforts to other recipients, if your staff is to be believed who has spotted him frequent certain establishments in the city. You are not sure if that is a blessing or a curse.

“You speak very kindly, my lord, and yet deep in my heart I can feel that this marriage will not be as prosperous as anyone would have hoped. Perhaps the Gods did not intend for me to be a mother, as much as it pains me to entertain this possibility.”

“My lady, let me assure you that it is not necessarily the fault of the mother,” he says, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Many good men have not sired a child in all their life.”

You consider his words, consider their implications that perhaps the fault of your childless life is not yours alone. “You may be right, my lord, and yet if the purpose of a woman is to bear her husband’s children then I cannot help but feel like my worth has been impaired by my failure to give him an heir.”

“Some narrow minds may view it like that, yes, but I cannot agree. My own lady wife was much more to me than just the bearer of my children and I miss her dearly to this very day.”

You cannot help the wave of pain this opens in your chest, your eyes stinging the faintest bit. “How beautiful it must be to be loved and cherished as you did her.”

“Do you not feel cherished, my lady?” he inquires.

“I never expected to be blessed with a happy marriage, my lord,” you confess truthfully. “And yet the reality of it disappoints me greatly. They say a lady may not love her husband but that she will love his children. It fills me with great sorrow to find that there is no love in my life when my heart is overflowing with all that I have yet to give.”

He halts right beside you and you do the same, the view from the edge of the retaining wall quite spectacular now that the sun has risen above sea level.

“I know my lady is visiting the city’s orphanages quite frequently,” he finally says. “And that she is very fond of my own grandchildren, generously helping my daughter in her care for them.”

“Indeed and it may not be quite the same as having a child of my own that I can spoil as I please but it brings me a few moments of domesticity now and again that I deeply cherish.”

He nods sagely, his sombre gaze meeting your own. “Seeing that you find yourself lacking for company perhaps I may extend an invitation to join us for supper more frequently, my lady? With or without your lord husband, as his schedule allows.”

You find yourself smiling freely at him, awakening sensations that are altogether too familiar, too intimate. If only he had not married you to a man incapable of such affections. “I shall gladly accept your kind offer, my lord. It would please me greatly.”

There is no pity in the expression he gives you this time but a gentle friendliness that you cannot remember seeing in his eyes before. You resume your stroll through the gardens, the increasing warmth of the sunlight invigorating your cold limbs the further you go, and when you reach a fork in the path that leads either further down or back towards the keep you do not wish to turn around.

“Shall we keep going, my lady?” the lord asks.

You cannot help but smile when you agree.

✦ ✧ ✦

Otto senses some reluctance as he glances at the names of staff that is working for your household, if only because he is keenly aware that the findings of his current research may upset him in ways that will tempt him to folly. However, if your husband is mistreating you then he simply must know. His net of spies within the palace is tight as it is in the rest of King’s Landing but the proximity will make it much easier to have him observed.

It instils amounts of regret in him that border on a stomach ache. Marrying you to Ser Alister had been a logical decision at the time but he cannot deny that keeping you in King’s Landing influenced his judgement severely.

A handsome young knight, to inherit his father’s titles and possibly even his seat at the king’s council, Ser Alister was an easily agreed upon match for your father, easier still for Otto who felt like he was doing you a favour after he had noticed your attentions for a while – attentions he could not return at the time, for your protection and out of the overwhelming grief he still felt after the death of his wife. Even so, Otto has to admit to himself that your very openly displayed affections have always flattered him, that you are a true beauty with a comely face that is not just a joy to look at but also a delight to listen to. You are educated, intelligent, sweet, bold in private but shy in the company of others. Endearing even to his old and fractured heart.

Alister did inherit the title as well as the seat on the council within the next three years after your wedding, having wrapped the king around his finger with his open support for the Princess and his Grace’s adamancy in keeping her as his heir. Otto can see now where he went wrong – a severe lapse in judgement of his character, to think him respectful and harmless despite their political disagreements. To think him even remotely worthy of you.

The questioning of your staff as well as a few of his spies in the city reveals quickly that the man he had you marry is a well-known customer in the Street of Silks. Otto cannot, will not believe that anyone would discard a woman like you so foolishly and after only three years of marriage. Such disrespect to the Maid and the Mother of whom you are such a striking image, deserving of nothing but reverence and adoration and a family to love. There is no honour in men like Alister, in men like Daemon Targaryen and so many others who do not know how to cherish their wives as they vowed before the Gods.

A vivid feeling of contempt takes hold of Otto, at himself as well as your husband. He cannot alter what he did in arranging this match but he can make sure that you are comforted in knowing that you deserve more.

✦ ✧ ✦

The Tower of the Hand has not changed much over the past few years, the narrow staircases, the cool stone walls still caging you in. To be summoned now makes you wonder what his lordship could possibly need from you. When you enter, the Lord Hand swiftly dismisses his guards and they close the door behind you. The chamber is dark, only a few candles flickering from his desk and the mantelpiece of his unlit hearth, and yet you can make out the lines of worry on his handsome aging face.

“My lord,” you address him.

“My lady, I am afraid that I have requested to see you on a rather… delicate matter. Please, have a seat.”

There is hardly enough time to scan the circular room before you sit at a small desk with his correspondence spread over top, the wax still melting over a candle. You can see his bed from the corner of your eye – his private quarters.

“My lady, after our conversation in the gardens…” He stops himself, making sure that you are meeting his gaze. “I could not help but look into matters that you have hinted at, in genuine concern for your well-being, and I am afraid that I have uncovered a concerning truth.”

“Pray tell, my lord, what truth? You do not have to spare my feelings.”

“I got word from a trusted source that your lord husband has been seen in… certain establishments in the Street of Silks.”

“I am afraid that this is not news to me, my lord,” you say and he regards you with surprise.

“You are aware?”

“If it please, my lord, I would prefer for this to remain private. It is already shameful enough without the entire court knowing.”

“Of course, my lady, I merely wished for you to know the vicious acts–”

You have to suppress a dry chuckle, wondering why he seems so astonished by your husband’s ways. “Vicious? My lord, I am hardly the only lady bound to a husband who seeks his pleasure elsewhere.”

Otto’s voice drips with venom. “That does not make it any less despicable.”

You nod, conceding to his point. “May I be truthful, my lord?”

“Certainly.”

“I would rather he takes his needs elsewhere than continue to…” You pause, trying to phrase your thoughts without leaving respectability. “I have given up hopes on a child of my own, so there is no need to continue our efforts. I find no enjoyment in them and with no remaining purpose I find myself incapable of putting my body through the pain.”

His gaze changes now, sympathy perhaps. The crease on his forehead is deeper. “Pain, my lady?”

“Were you not aware that it is painful, my lord?”

“You say this as though it is a fact.”

“Is it not?” you ask, confused as to his meaning.

He looks at you as though there is something weighing on him, something he is desperate to share, but when his mouth opens no words come out. The lord spreads his palms on his desk as he sits up straighter, his hands pale and broad, adorned with rings that reflect the light of the candles. “My lady, I fear that the continuation of this conversation will lead us beyond the realms of propriety.”

You nod, averting your gaze in shame. “Please forgive me, my lord.”

“There is nothing to forgive, my lady. I understand there is a… curiosity that grows upon the discovery of such intimate matters.”

You fight back the tears that have gathered in your eyes. “No matter, he is not requesting my presence anymore. I just wonder–” Again, you have to pause, feeling like a child again and not like a woman of two-and-twenty years. “Is it true, my lord?”

He furrows his brow. “Is what true, my lady?”

“Am I not handsome enough? My father–”

“Your father should never have spoken to you like that,” he interrupts, only catching his tone after the words left his mouth. You are surprised he still recalls that conversation. “I can assure you, my lady, that your beauty is greatly admired at court and certainly not the reason that your husband is disrespecting you in such a way.”

“And yet, perhaps he cannot find it.” You swallow the tears of irritation that are threatening to spill. “Please forget that I ever mentioned this to you, my lord. I hope you can forgive me for my transgression. I am aware that my intent is one that does not befit a lady of my station and that you cannot give me counsel in such matters. I thank you for your concern and for looking out for me when no one else does.”

“My lady.” His voice is soft, hardly more than a whisper and when you meet his eyes you see a glimmer in them that is akin to the longing you feel in your heart.

Perhaps it is this notion that gives you the courage. You place your delicate hand on top of his, feeling the lines and ridges, scars of a long life spent with a sword in his grasp. He does not pull away, not even when you smooth your thumb over his skin in a tender stroke. You repeat the movement, his eyes fixated on your joint hands, and round the table without letting go.

Once you are in his lap, you let go of his hand to toy with his doublet, tracing the chains around his neck, the brooch that shows the world that he is the hand of the king, the second most powerful man in all the Seven Kingdoms. And yet the power he wields over you far surpasses that of anyone else. Your faces are at the same height now, your noses brushing together before you lean back. You take his hand in both of yours, admiring how large it is, how you have to use both hands to fully grasp it. For a brief moment you bring it to your lips, breathing a kiss to his knuckles. The silver ring on his finger feels cool against your mouth, his skin softer than you expected.

“My lady,” he warns, the hesitation evident in his eyes.

You place his hand on your waist and to your delight he curls it around your shape. When you reach for his other hand he meets you halfway. They settle over your hips, holding you in place, and you rest your own hands on top of them for a moment to feel the warmth of his skin. This is how a lover’s touch should feel, you think. Gentle and warm. Safe.

“This is foolish,” he comments but his voice is too soft to convey the sentiment.

“Perhaps,” you agree. “Let me be foolish for once, my lord. I want to know what it feels like to follow my desires, to have a memory that I can retreat to when I need it.”

His throat constricts as he swallows, his gentle gaze fixed on you as you inspect the soft wrinkles on his face, the discoloured skin below his eyes that crinkles when they move. You lift a hand to caress him, shy fingertips exploring the shape of his face. Your lord stays still for you, allowing you the innocent touch even as his heart tightens at the intimacy of it all. He has not been touched by a woman in so long that he quite forgot the reactions it lures from his body, the want, the need it stokes when such a sublime creatures offers him the tenderness and comfort he so craves.

You shift forward and suddenly his thigh is pressing against that soft part between your legs. The pressure sends a jolt through your body. You gasp and his eyes flutter closed for a moment. You move your hand to comb his beard, your fingertips grazing the skin underneath until you can cup his cheek. The lord leans into your touch, eyes still shut, and breathes a burdensome sigh.

“Let me adjust you,” he finally says as his eyes open, waiting for you to give a nod before his grasp tightens. He lifts you enough that your leg slides between his, shifting his hips forward to give you more space. You are straddling his thigh now, the fabric of your dress bunched up high enough that you can feel him pressing against your core through your shift and your linens.

“My lord,” you whisper.

“Move your hips,” he instructs. “Gently, and tell me when you feel it.”

“Feel what, my lord?”

“You will know, darling girl.”

With your eyes on his you do as he says, rocking your hips clumsily at first. His hands guide you into a more fluid rhythm and you find more confidence when you feel the first sparks of pleasure his firm leg sends through your body. Your gasps soon fill the room, even as you try to hold them back. You recognise the feeling and the heat, you have felt it at times when your husband happened to touch certain parts of you, when you tried to touch yourself but weren’t courageous enough to continue. Only now the intensity is tenfold, especially with the lord’s keen eyes so focused on your mouth, on every sigh that leaves your lips.

“My beauty,” he whispers. “Carved from marble, a face that even the Gods must envy, and yet he does not see it, does not treasure it. What a shame to be gifted such a beautiful flower and to let it wilt in neglect.”

His words hardly register as he bounces his leg to meet your rhythm. The sparks of pleasure that spread in your body feel wrong, almost shameful, and yet you want to chase, need to chase them. But then the pressure slowly becomes uncomfortable, a tension that you don’t recognise but that is bordering on painful. You whimper, stopping your efforts, whispering that it is too much.

“Keep going,” your lord orders, gripping your hips tightly to drag you across his leg. “Do not stop.”

“I c-cannot–”

“Shhhh,” he coos. “Trust me, my girl.”

You cry out softly, picking your rhythm back up as he helps you with strong hands, the hands of a knight, a powerful man that you have wanted since you knew what wanting really meant. The tension pushes you towards an invisible edge and then you fall–

“My lord. My lord.” You wail as if in pain, your face falling against his as your breathing becomes more shallow and the pleasure tears through your body. He does not stop you as you hide your face, his beard soft against your cheek as he drags out the sensation by moving his leg back and forth, pressing against that spot again and again. The fabric of your linens as well as his pants feels damp against your core.

Your body goes slack and his arms wrap around you, cradling you against his broad chest as you catch your breath. Even as your body stops trembling the warmth and contentment stay trapped within you, your muscles slowly relaxing now.

“My darling girl,” he whispers, breathing a kiss to your hair. “And how well you did.”

“What have you done to me?” you ask breathlessly.

“What you are owed, my lady,” he says with a chuckle. “I have given you pleasure”

“Pleasure.” The word tastes sweet on your tongue but it comes with a sting. How cruel to give you a crumb of bliss only to pull it away again.

You lift your head to look at him, a softness on his face that lets you believe he holds a warm affection for you, at least for this fleeting moment. The desire to kiss him is overwhelming and you place your hand on his other thigh. Immediately you feel the hardness between his legs against your arm and you flinch back in uncertainty. “My lord.”

“Pay it no mind,” he says.

You ignore him and place your hand on his stiff member, feeling the outline clearly even through the fabric of his garbs. The gasp that leaves him sounds like music, the first sign that this is affecting him beyond what he is willing to share. You want to kiss him still, your face inching closer on its own accord. His hand moves up to cup your chin and he places his thumb on your plump bottom lip, only allowing you to hover above his own mouth. It is but a futile attempt at restraint, at keeping up the illusion that nothing here is untoward. You move your hand to stroke him through his pants and his hips buck to meet your movement.

“Gods have mercy,” he breathes, his voice raspy and barely audible.

You wonder how long it has been since someone touched him like this. Mesmerised by his reaction, you do it again and his eyes flutter closed, his unkempt brows furrowing so tightly that they almost meet. After only a handful more strokes he releases a scarcely concealed groan and you feel him kicking against your hand, the thick fabric turning wet as it soaks up his spend.

His ragged breathing betrays his state, even as he controls any other sound that leaves him. You are still trapped in the haze of your own bliss, in the newfound sense of power you have gained from whatever it is that you just did to him. He still won’t let you kiss him, his thumb firm against your lips. Perhaps it is better that way, you think, the only skin of his you have touched being that of his hands.

“My sweet girl,” he says after a moment, clearing his tight throat with some effort. “We can never speak of this again.”

The words tear you back down from your high, their reality so evident, so clear. You nod and allow the pain to spread in your heart, expected but all the more severe. Of course nothing has changed, not in truth, even though you feel like you will never be the same again.

Otto removes you from his lap, making sure that you can stand on your own and waiting patiently until your legs stop wobbling, his hands firm on your hips. His face betrays his regret – he cannot hide his emotions from you anymore, not after what you just did. He is such an honourable man, valuing propriety and respect above all else, that this must pain him more than you can understand.

You make sure your gown sits correctly and smooth out the strands of hair that have fallen into your face from moving so erratically. The door-handle feels cool against your warm hand, a feverish sensation spreading within you. You spare the lord one last glance, your eyes meeting his for a burning hot moment, and then you slip through the door, a profound sense of loss slowly settling in your bones.

3 The Lonely Days

Your handmaiden carefully adjusts the sleeves of your gown, a deep blue fabric with golden accents to match the colours of your husband’s house. Bejewelled earrings and a bracelet complete your look, dainty jewellery with blue stones just like he once told you he prefers. You stare at your reflection in the polished metal for a long moment, struggling to recognise yourself even after years of wearing his colours. You are almost ready when the door to your chambers opens and a footman enters with his gaze lowered.

“What is it?” you ask impatiently.

“His lordship has requested to stay in bed tonight,” he says. “He is not feeling well enough to accompany you to the celebration, m’lady.”

“He is unwell?”

“He has been sleeping for most of the day, m’lady, complained about a headache.”

“Why have I not been informed?”

The servant simply stares at the floor and you sigh as you realise that the signs point to a long night down in the brothels more so than an acute illness. It would certainly not be the first time that he is leaving you to your own devices to nurse the ailments of a night spent drinking and– You clear your throat.

“Send for a maester should he not feel better in the morning,” you tell him. “And inform me of his condition the moment it changes.”

A nod and the door softly closes. Another event you will have to attend by yourself. You would be glad to avoid a night of his indifference were it not for the fact that his absence must appear even more worrisome to the other houses. You are anything but a strong unit and talks about your childless marriage never cease – you see them whispering their rumours from ear to ear whenever you enter a room, followed by pitiful glances.

“Anything else, m’lady?” your handmaiden asks. “Perhaps a shawl in case you feel a chill?”

You falter for a moment as you look down at yourself and suddenly detest your whole attire. Why are you dressing for a man who disrespects you at any chance he gets, who cannot even exert himself to appear by your side when it truly matters? “Apologies, Malena, but I have decided that I will wear the green dress tonight after all.”

She bows and you begin to undress as she fetches the garment. There is only one pair of eyes that you want to feel on your body tonight and it won’t be drawn to blue fabric.

✦ ✧ ✦

The hall is filled to the brim with people of all houses – a banquet to which not only the capital’s nobility has been invited but any noble who was willing to commit to the journey to King’s Landing. It is a celebration in honour of the Prince Aegon’s nameday but Otto insisted on the opulence – the prince has to stay on their minds, his grandson, namesake of Aegon the Conqueror, and as far as Otto is concerned the future regent of the Seven Kingdoms.

Noisy chatter fills his ears as he watches his lovely daughter introducing Aegon as well as the Princess Helaena, her second child, to the lords and ladies who have not had the pleasure yet. His Grace is watching them with a gentle smile on his face and Otto cannot help but feel a hint of complacency. Thanks to Aegon the mess the king created in naming his daughter his heir can be mended, if he plays it well.

Even though he feels a deep affection for his grandchildren, two innocent infants who are blissfully unaware of the role they are going to play in securing peace and order in the realm, Otto’s eyes are drawn to the entrance. You are late, a few minutes of tardiness that Otto spends wondering if you decided against attending after all, perhaps in favour of staying with your lord husband. He was informed just an hour ago by one of his little mice that the lord is feeling rather unwell this evening, that he has been complaining about different symptoms for a while now. Otto is not surprised by the news. These may well be the first signs that his increasingly frivolous whereabouts are affecting the man’s health and, therefore, his accountability.

When you do arrive at last, Otto is quite struck by the sight of you entering the hall – so much so that Alicent rouses him with a concerned look on her face. He gives her a reassuring smile, then trains his eyes back to your form. It is quite distracting, the way your dress accentuates your womanly figure. His colour, he notes, the dark shade of green he usually wears. A mere moment later you eye him with a gentle smile playing at your lips and his suspicion is confirmed that you’re wearing it for him. Gods, he finds that your beauty is taking his breath away even more so than usual. Not that he did not admire you before, you have always been a sight for the Gods, but now that he knows what you sound like in the throes of your pleasure you fully and irrevocably occupy his mind.

Perhaps tonight, then, he thinks, toying with the small box he has been keeping in his pocket for a few weeks now. You are tempting him to folly, evoking emotions of a strength he has not felt in years. Even his work is impacted by this attachment. He finds his hands forming fists underneath the table whenever your lord husband speaks up during council meetings, most days still half drunk from the night before. Pathetic, with no sense of honour, besmearing your good name in the process. Seeing you now without this worm hanging by your arm is most welcome, wearing his colour no less, a beautiful deep green. It seems that you are well aware of who you truly belong to.

No, who you should belong to, Otto must correct himself. A constant reminder of a mistake that caught up to him faster than he would have wished for. A mistake that calls for more mistakes that he cannot allow to happen.

Dinner passes with stolen glances and timid smiles. Ever since the moment you shared in his quarters you seem to blush and turn away whenever you catch sight of him and yet it seems like your gaze never strays too far. It is quite endearing, the shy glances, the rosy cheeks that no one else knows are just for him. As daring as you were in the privacy of the tower, you have respected his wish to never mention it again. It is for your own protection, of course, although Otto fears what it would do to his own integrity if word spread about an illicit affair, no matter that what occurred between you hardly deserves the name. He has been meticulously crafting his reputation for decades now and he cannot allow these foolish desires to taint it.

Soon, the dancing is in full swing. For a brief moment he indulges in the fantasy of asking you to do him the honour, to see the cheerful smile on your face he has not seen since he married you to Alister. Judging by the expression on your face as you observe the dancery, he imagines that you long for a partner to share the delights of a joyful evening. Young as you are, it is a shame that you should sit in your chair all night. Another reason to loathe your husband, not that he is lacking for those.

Perhaps this is the reason why you slip away the moment the steady flow of wine and musical distractions allows you to do so unobserved. It is his only chance. Otto rises as soon as he can without arousing suspicion. The hour is late enough to justify a reprieve.

“Excuse me for a moment, your Grace,” he says without waiting for an answer.

The castle is abandoned and his steps echo loudly, bouncing off the stone walls of the keep. He finds you in an empty hallway halfway back to your chambers, gazing out of a window that overlooks the gardens that he knows you are so very fond of. The two guards who are closest pay him no mind, yet he dismisses them with a nod and they take station at a more unobtrusive spot.

You turn as his steps approach, confused momentarily as to who could be following you. When you recognise the figure as him your expression visibly softens and your guard is let down once more. The effect he has on you should alarm you but on the contrary, you seem to be eager to welcome him in your presence.

“Are you tiring of the festivities, my lady?” he asks, approaching you with cautious strides.

“I do not have much to celebrate, my lord. You might have heard that my lord husband is feeling rather unwell.”

“And yet you are not with him, no?”

You eye him with barely hidden annoyance and he chuckles lowly, satisfied. There is hardly any cause for jealousy when your disdain is so very obvious. Otto approaches, closing the distance cautiously to make sure that you remain comfortable in his proximity. He stops about two steps away from you, a towering and broad figure compared to your shorter frame, and you have to look up to meet his eyes. He drinks you in for a long time, not lustful but in admiration, letting his gaze wander over your body in a way that has goosebumps spreading all over your skin. He would count every single one of them, if he had the time.

“You look beautiful tonight, my lady,” he whispers. “A new colour?”

You meet his eyes, boldly this time, in the way that makes him want to pull you into his arms and ravish you. “My favourite colour.”

“Is that so?”

A timid smile. “I know, I should not, I cannot… But, my lord, you know that it is true.”

“It is alright, my sweet,” he assures you. “Indeed, catching you alone allows me to do something I have been avoiding for too long and I do not mean complimenting your beauty.”

“And what would that be, my lord?”

“I do not wish to offend your sensibilities, my lady, I know it is not my place to lavish you with gifts and you may find it presumptuous, but… I have something that I wish to offer you.” Your eyes widen, so he quickly continues. “I am in no position to put a claim on you and yet it would please me greatly to see you wearing it on occasion. I am certain that you can think of a plausible explanation as to how it came into your possession.”

Before you can protest he retrieves the small box from his pocket. Taking off the lid he reveals a  finely crafted ring with a sparkling green gemstone – a real emerald. He must admit the choice of colour was quite on purpose, green as the beacon of the Hightower when his house rides to war. A war Otto cannot win, he knows, but it is a war he is fighting every day nonetheless. To see you fighting it with him, if subtle, would be a great source of comfort.

“My lord, but this is…” You admire the beautiful piece of jewellery, your eyes drawn to the way it shimmers in the moonlight, subtle and delicate but breathtaking nonetheless. “It is too much.”

“I am afraid that no gemstone will ever suffice to express what I truly wish to say, my lady,” he says. “And yet I hope you will honour me by wearing it.”

You nod and stretch out your hand. The lord takes the ring and carefully slides it onto your finger. A perfect fit of course, he made sure of that. His larger hand gently holds yours so that he can admire the jewel and you briefly rest your other hand on top of his. His skin is warm and weathered. It is all you want to feel for the rest of your life.

“Forgive me,” he says and you’re not quite certain what he means until he lifts your hand to his mouth and places a reverent kiss on the back of it. He lingers, his beard tickling your soft skin as his lips travel along your knuckles and finally rest on the gem.

“I shall think of you whenever I wear it,” you supply. Then, with a softer voice: “Though, in truth and in shame I must admit that I already think of you more than is proper, my lord. You occupy my mind and heart at all times. You always have.”

He smiles, a tight-lipped, pained smile. “You honour me, my lady, in ways that I fear I do not deserve.”

“It matters not what we deserve, my lord.” You lift your hand and cradle his face, stroking his cheekbone tenderly with your thumb. “I shall find comfort in knowing that you return my affections at last.”

“My darling girl,” he whispers and the words sound like a prayer from his lips.

You close your eyes for a moment, trapped in the sensation of his lips on your skin, the feeling of his beard against your fingertips just like he is trapped in the gentleness of your touch, in the longing for more of your simple comforts that he has to deny himself over and over again. You both pray in silence that the moment never ends, and yet he has to let go of you eventually and come to his senses. How cruel to ache for a love that he denied himself in the first place.

✦ ✧ ✦

Your sitting room is illuminated by burnt-down candles, the hour late as you have reclined on a settee to read in your book. Truth be told, you should be sleeping, but you cannot bear to let your mind wander as it tends to do in the quiet of your canopy.

To your surprise, the door opens and your husband stumbles in. Even from afar you can tell that he reeks of wine and the fumes of the city. He sits down in a chair and stares at you in a manner that has always made you rather uncomfortable. Rare as it is, you do not enjoy his company.

“I overheard a most interesting conversation in the council chamber,” he says out of nowhere, a smug smile playing at his lips. “About the Lord Hand, Otto Hightower.”

You pause, closing the book as you gaze at your husband in interest now. He is not in the habit of discussing politics with you and certainly does not bring up the council on his own accord.

“He was dismissed as Hand to the King,” he continues, standing now to pour himself a glass of wine from your private pitcher. “Finally, thank the Seven.”

“Pray, what do you mean?”

“The king finally had enough of his little schemes. He does not wish for Aegon to be his heir, he insists on keeping the Princess in the position and rightfully so. Your lord got too bold with his endless attempts at installing his own grandson as heir, spreading rumours about the Princess. His greed for power is so obvious even our blind king can see it now. Perhaps you should go and bid your lord farewell before he departs.”

“He is not my lord, whatever are you talking about?”

He sets the glass down, turning to you with a withering expression. “Do you think I am not aware that you are wearing green more often? That you’re suddenly wearing emeralds instead of blue stones? That your lord continuously eyes me with disdain when I speak up during council meetings and dismisses any of my suggestions, even proceeds to work against them? How his eyes linger on you when we are invited to sup with the king and his family? I may not be the most devoted of spouses but I do have eyes in my skull.”

“Unlike you I remain in control of my desires. As does he,” you reply coldly. “The Gods see what you are doing in the Street of Silks, what you are doing to your own wife.”

“Perhaps,” he admits. “But my sins do not absolve you from your own and, let us be frank, my dear lady wife. The difference between thought and action matters little to the Gods when it comes to corruption. Whether it festers on the inside or the outside you end up rotten. I might as well take what life offers to me instead of pining after someone who could be my own father. It makes you look pathetic and not just in my eyes.”

You bite back a reply. His provocations mean little to you, especially with the knowledge that the Lord Hand has been dismissed from his position. If it is true then he may leave King’s Landing for good.

Leave you.

Without another word you abandon your book and exit your chambers. In the quiet of the old hallways of the keep you take a few deep breaths, the tightness of your dress suddenly suffocating you. This cannot be true, you think, His Grace would never dismiss such a trusted advisor, such a devoted servant of the realm. But then you know Otto is ambitious, that his plans at times may be unpopular and that the peace of the realm has always ranked higher for him than the will of the king. The Princess threatens the delicate balance between the lords of the Seven Kingdoms, threatens the loyalty of many houses to the crown who will not accept a queen where there is a male heir to be had. And while you always loved the Princess and considered her to be a worthy successor you can see why he may have tried to sway the king in Aegon’s favour. He is his grandsire, after all, and he knows the ways of court politics.

As soon as your racing heart beats a more bearable rhythm, you hurry to the Tower of the Hand. However, the guards inform you that you cannot enter as it has been abandoned not long ago. You are unaware as to when this conversation your husband overheard took place and the hour is late, or perhaps too early, when you finally decide to retreat to your own chambers.

You see nothing of Otto over the next day, even though you are pacing the hallways of the keep in a way that must make even the guards nervous. You all but give up on ever seeing him again until from a window you spot Queen Alicent by the gate across the courtyard with a rider who you can only assume is her father.

He is leaving, you realise.

Heart pounding anew you hurry down the stairs, nearly tripping over your dress as you run faster than is deemed appropriate for a lady. But you care not, even as your feet begin to ache and you finally reach the courtyard. It is pouring, the rain mercilessly beating down from the skies above but you cannot wait for anyone to fetch you a coat. When you approach the gate you hear the clicking of the hooves on distant cobblestone but the rider has already left.

You don’t, cannot, stop, not until you are by Alicent’s side, your Queen, your friend, who falls into your arms in painful, shaking sobs that vibrate deep within your chest. Something inside of you breaks with a finality that weakens your very bones. You cannot hold back your tears either, letting them mix in with the rain until you cannot tell them apart any longer.

4 The Widowed Days

Every morning, you observe the murky water rushing down the river and mouthing into Blackwater Bay – a steady, endless stream with harsh currents as well as the occasional softer tide when the weather is more agreeable. Time passes in much the same way.

It has been nearly ten years since the first symptoms showed, made memorable by the night of Prince Aegon’s name day celebration. While the illness progressed slowly at first, with years and years of mild symptoms, your husband’s health has been declining rapidly over the past two years. You take care of him to the best of your abilities but as a proud man he does not wish to be fussed over and more often than not he sends you away. The maesters are clueless as to his condition, perhaps the repercussions of his drinking excesses that would not cease even as his affliction progressed. Whenever you look at him you see a withering face, the face of a man much older than the years he truly lived. Even though you don’t hold much love for him it pains you to see him succumbing to such an undignified illness.

You have not much to hold onto besides the fantasies your mind conjures up in the quiet hours you spend in the keep, a weak attempt at comfort. The years have not diminished your love for Ser Otto, or rather the desire for a love that could have been. He comes to you in dreams, fragments of memories of the feel of his weathered hands in yours, the scratch of his beard against your fingertips.

Alicent knows about your affections for her father as you spilled your heart to her the very moment he had left and you found comfort in each other’s arms upon his departure. Ever since, your bond is as strong as it used to be in your childhood, perhaps even more so with years of hardships added to its weight. Thanks to her you know that he is in good health, that he is safe in Oldtown, and as much as you long to see him again you are comforted in knowing that he is faring well.

You spend much time helping her raise her children, especially the Princess Helaena, an intelligent but misunderstood girl who struggles with the life she was forced into, not unlike her mother. Alicent’s role as queen is demanding and you notice how she is changing, becoming more and more like her father, a clever woman forged by court politics and increasing responsibilities as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Life at court has become tense with rumours about the legitimacy of the Princess Rhaenyra’s offspring, with tensions between her children and those of the queen as well as the notable decline of the king’s health. You do not envy her.

The night he left, you found a letter from Otto on your bed, delivered to you in secret – a brief message that was written in haste before his departure. My lady, I regret to inform you that my time at court has come to a premature end. However, I remain hopeful that we will meet again under improved circumstances. Know that it pains me to leave you without as much as a spoken farewell. In my absence, I ask you to remain by my daughter’s side, if not for the affection that I hope you still hold for me then as her loyal childhood companion and friend. May the Seven keep you in good health, Otto.

You know it by heart, the parchment old and scarcely readable by now. Since then, some letters have been exchanged between Ser Otto and you in which you have informed him about the whereabouts of his grandchildren and he thanked you for your support of his daughter and family. Even so, you remain a married woman and regular correspondence with a man who is not your husband raises too many questions, too many rumours on top of an already strained reputation. So you keep the exchanges sparse, hold the replies he sends you as dearly as you can, and tell yourself that he must be thinking of you fondly still or he would not write to you at all.

With your husband bedridden and often unresponsive, you find yourself a widow in all but law. Though your life feels even lonelier than during the first few years of your marriage, you found solace in frequenting the gardens, supporting the capital’s orphanages as well as keeping the queen’s company. Every morning you go on a lengthy walk, reminiscing about the time you spent here with Otto, following the exact route you took with him the morning of the hunt. It feels as though centuries have passed since then – the bushes have been replaced, the paths altered, even you yourself don’t feel like the same person anymore. What never changes, however, is the beauty of the sunrise over Blackwater Bay, though the colours vary and are never quite the same – every morning a welcome but familiar surprise.

When you return one morning, the Keep is more alive than usual at this hour. Servants are running past you almost as though you are invisible. Perhaps they prepare for the arrival of some noble guests, you think and head to the nearest window facing the outer courtyard. You cannot see any larger wheelhouses, nor do you spot anything out of the ordinary. That is, until one of the riders by the gate lifts his hood.

You scarcely believe your eyes. It must be a trick, an evil one at that, but you could swear that he looks like Ser Otto. It would not be the first time that you see him in someone else’s face, that your mind deceives you so cruelly into believing that he is near. Missing him has been one of the harder burdens of the past decade and sometimes relief means delusion for just a few precious seconds. However, as you continue to observe the man, you cannot help but see Otto in in his shape, his height, in the way he moves.

Of course you know that Lord Strong and his son Ser Harwin recently perished in a fire at Harrenhal but you had not assumed that Alicent would send for her father to replace the Lord Hand. It is entirely possible, however. Suddenly invigorated, you storm down the stairs and head outside in what may be unseemly but entirely necessary for your own sanity.

You nearly stumble when you finally exit the keep, though fortunately the lord does not notice your ineptitude as he gives orders to a footman. Seeing him in the flesh feels like a dream, his tall stature only slightly more slumped with age but not diminishing his dignified presence in the slightest. Your heart begins to hammer in excitement, in relief, and you have to hold back the tears to feign an indifferent politeness.

“My Lord,” you say. “How it delights me to see you back in the capital.”

He turns to offer you his full attention. Within a split second recognition flits across his face. “My lady.” A soft chuckle. “Well, you honour me. How lovely to be greeted by a welcome, familiar face.”

“It gladdens me to see that you are in good health,” you say happily as your eyes meet the very face you have not seen in near a decade. “In fact you have not changed at all, except perhaps for a few grey hairs.”

He smiles at your mild teasing and you wonder if the years away from court have softened him. “As a wise lady once told me: My age only adds to my character. And the same appears to be true for you. You have…” He pauses, weighing his words. “… matured.”

You give a soft laugh. “It has been ten years, I should hope so. Or are you implying that I look old, my lord?”

“I would not dare suggest such a thing,” he says. “Let me rephrase, my lady. The years have served to enhance your beauty.”

Warmth blooms in your cheeks at the first openly spoken compliment after so many years and for a moment you feel like the little girl that used to admire him from afar. If she were here now she would be floating on saccharine clouds for the rest of the day, daydreaming about him reciprocating her hidden desires. But you are not that girl anymore. The past decade has left its ugly marks on you and coveting what you cannot have has only brought you the deepest misery. You vow to protect your heart, no matter how much it wants to beat out of your chest and land in his gentle hands.

“Thank you, my lord,” you say. “I trust that we will see each other more frequently now.”

“I should hope so, my lady, since I am reassuming my position as Hand of the King.”

You perk up in delight at the news, your suspicion confirmed. “I do not wish to keep you, my lord, I am sure you long to be reunited with your family and acquaint yourself with the current state of affairs. I do hope we will get the chance to speak in more depth.”

“I will make sure of it, my lady.”

His expression gives you hope that his promise is sincere.

✦ ✧ ✦

“A green dress,” you order, dabbing some of your scented oils to your neck and wrists.

“Which one, m’lady?”

“The darker one with the lower neckline, I think. Or the green-gold one?”

Your handmaid smiles to herself; you think she must be amused by your antics. “I think he would like the lower cut, m’lady, if I may speak so freely.”

As always she can read your thoughts and you have to agree. “Then that one it is, Malena. And don’t forget to bring the emerald ring.”

You hope his lordship won’t be cross with you. He did not seem opposed to your initiative the last few times you were alone together, even if that was over a decade ago, so you hope he won’t mind you paying him a visit so soon. He has been rather occupied since arriving but tonight Alicent invited you to sup with their family and you are quite certain this means the Lord Hand must be ready for company.

The hour is still early, the sun has only just risen and you are getting ready to start your day with a visit to the Tower of the Hand before your morning walk. You are not sure you could sit through supper without having seen him for yourself first. The past days have been filled with anticipation, the sheer prospect of being in his proximity enough to keep you awake at night.

As your feet carry you up the stairs after many years of absence, your heart is beating mercilessly against your ribcage. You carry a small basket, clutching it tightly to your front so its content comes to no harm.

The men of the Hand’s household guard allow you to enter without a second glance, announcing you briefly. Otto Hightower stands from his chair, surprise but no dismissal in his features. He easily rounds his desk to approach you and you are once again struck by his tall frame, the grace with which he moves.

“Good morrow, my lord,” you say, trying to find your courage. “I have come to deliver a welcome present for you. I thought you might still be weary after your long travels and–” You pause, looking at him and his tired eyes. “Forgive me for being so forward. I am certain that you are quite occupied and–”

“No need for apologies, my lady, I would have sent for you shortly.”

“I wanted to give you more time to arrive, my lord, but I simply could not–” Again you pause, your heart hammering so fast that it drowns out the thoughts in your head. “I could not fight the urge to see you.”

The lord takes a step in your direction, an untamed emotion in his eyes now, and he only falters for a moment before he fully closes the gap between you. His hands grasp your wrists and wander up your arms, careful and slow, as though he is trying remember the shape of you. With a tender expression he finally captures your face and while his openly displayed attention confuses you you can’t help but melt into his touch. The lord leans forward, his beard and nose brushing against your cheek as he inhales, taking a deep breath to have his fill of you. All of his senses satiated, he releases a wistful sigh, the depth of which sends heat pooling into your lower belly.

“I brought you some oils, my lord, lavender for sleeping a– and–” You pause when his lips trail along you jaw, so soft you hardly feel them. “My lord–”

“Tell me,” he urges. “Tell me you feel the same, my sweet girl. That you did not forget me. You must let me know.”

You can’t help but whimper, his insistence making your skin tingle with need. “I have missed you every single day, my lord,” you whisper as if in silent prayer, the truth spilling out despite your resolution to be cautious. “No day would pass that your vision did not haunt me. I have dreamt of the day that the Gods would return you to me, begged for it in the darkest hours of my existence.”

Another deep breath, shakier than before, and he looks at you with a fire you have never before seen in the calm lord’s eyes. “The Maid herself sent you into my arms all those years ago, the sweetest girl I had ever seen, and I was fool enough to refuse her gift. To this day it is my biggest regret.”

“Regret not, my lord, please.” You set the basket down on his desk right by your side, then you place your hands on top of his, gently grasping them where they are still holding your face. “You did what you thought to be right and honourable.”

“And doomed you to a life by the side of a man who could not cherish you as I wished to do.” He huffs out a breath, two long thumbs stroking over your wet cheeks. You are unaware as to when you started crying but now you can feel the tears burning in your lash line, pearling onto his fingers. As you grasp his hands tighter his eyes are caught by the sparkling emerald on your finger and his expression softens with sentimentality. “You still own it?”

“It is my greatest treasure.”

The lord closes his eyes, his brow furrowed tightly in a way that betrays his pain. “I shall make things right, sweet girl. I promise this to you.”

“But my lord, I am still ma–”

A loud knock interrupts your words. You break apart just as a servant enters the chamber and you are certain that you must be red and hot as the flaming tips of dragon’s breath. The servant appears to be quite winded, as though he ran up the many stairs of the tower in quite a hurry.

“Excuse me, m’lord, m’lady,” the man says. “It is urgent. I was sent to come looking for you.”

“What is it?” you ask, brow furrowed in increasing confusion. You look to Ser Otto for help but his expression is filled with sympathy, almost as though he knows what the man is going to say even before you do.

“It is your lord husband, m’lady. He passed in his sleep.”

✦ ✧ ✦

An orange sunset coats the roofs of King’s Landing in its golden light as you let the evening fade out on a balcony with Alicent by your side. You were supping with her family just earlier, for the first time in a decade joined by her father as well. Even though you had to push the occasion back, caused by the recent news of your lord husband’s passing, the evening was pleasant and a welcome distraction. You had not seen the Lord Hand since visiting him in the Tower and though not many words were spoken between you this evening you found comfort in the way he would meet your eyes so reassuringly.

It has only been little over a week since the Silent Sisters took Alister for cleansing, to prepare him for his final goodbye. Since then you have received many offers of commiseration, in letters as well as from people here at court. You wanted to spend your period of mourning alone but your queen forbid it after a mere four days of isolation. She said she needed you, having received her own news of loss, and that you should spend each other comfort in these times. Now, watching the sunset for the first time after you lost him you are glad that she is here with you.

“The Stranger has visited us again and so soon,” Alicent says, pouring you a glass of wine. “First your husband and now Laena Velaryon.”

You accept the wine, even though you don’t drink before your queen has taken her first sip. “And they were both too young, though I am afraid my husband won’t be as direly missed as the Lady Laena.”

“Perhaps he sensed that my father came back, that it was his time to go knowing you would not be alone in your grief.”

“He would not have done me the kindness of letting go so that I could be with your father,” you reply, no emotion in your voice as you speak the words frankly for the first time. “If he had known he would have made sure to live another decade, just to make me miserable. He once said that my feelings for the Lord Hand made me pathetic and I doubt he ever changed his mind. He was always too fond of the Princess.”

She regards you hesitantly, the monotony in your voice no doubt unsettling her. “No matter, he is gone now, a blessing after all the pain and suffering he had to endure. May he rest with the Gods.”

She finally drinks and you take a sip as well, tasting the sweetness of the wine in contrast to the bitter reality of your life. A childless widow now, at just over thirty years of age. Even though you never loved your husband you feel a sense of loss. For the life you could have had, perhaps, a life without the stain of a childless, loveless marriage that ended far too soon. The family he never gave you, the true love he took from you.

“If it is still your wish,” she says, sensing your thoughts, “then I will not object to a match between you and my father when the time comes. You are already an integral part of our family, we might as well make it official. And I want you on my side for what is to come, the both of you.” An awkward smile. “Though I must admit… it will take me some time to get used to calling you mother.”

“Please, do not call me mother.” You both have to laugh at that notion, the first real sign of emotion you allow to bubble out of you in days. “However, I am not sure if the Lord Hand’s affections run so deep that he would propose a wedding.”

Alicent smiles, grasping your hand in hers. “He would be a fool not to marry you and my father is anything but.”

5 The Happy Days

You roll up the letter and place it back on the table, staring at the broken wax seal with the sigil of your father’s house. Amongst the bustle of the royal family arriving back from Driftmark you nearly missed the raven this morning. The keep had been entirely too quiet as the king’s family was away to attend the Lady Laena’s funeral but now that they have returned rumours are spreading like fire.

It is easy to tell that something has gone awry. The Prince Aemond is missing an eye, the people at court whisper when you take a stroll in the gardens to clear your head. A conflict, a bloody fight between the children of Queen Alicent and the Princess Rhaenyra. You have to refrain from intruding as your concern grows after hearing increasingly violent stories, the need to see Alicent and the children overwhelming. It is almost enough to distract you from the news you received that very morning.

You don’t expect anyone to call on you soon in the aftermath of what happened and with the tension still so very palpable within the Red Keep. The very evening of the family’s return, however, a footman arrives at your door carrying a small chest with a familiar crest.

“The Lord Hand sends for you, m’lady. He wishes for you to wear these.”

✦ ✧ ✦

The Tower smells of incense. It is the first thing you notice and you wonder if your lord has been praying, calling to the Gods for his grandson. Unlike many times before you do not find him behind his desk but on a daybed that must have been brought in recently. The padding looks unused, rich green brocade, and it is positioned perfectly in front of the hearth to provide ample warmth during cooler nights. You wonder if his joints are troubling him.

Otto Hightower looks up, the flames casting an orange glow on his handsome face, and his features soften remarkably as he beholds you. Under his gaze you fiddle with the matching pair of emerald and gold cuffs he gifted you and that his eyes are drawn to immediately.

“My lord sent for me,” you say, hovering by the door.

“I should like to have your company tonight,” he says, patting the spot beside him. “I am in need of a gentle face and a soothing voice. But only if it please my darling girl.”

He looks weary, you note. Despite his sweet words there is a heaviness to him that he must have carried here all the way from Driftmark.

“Can I offer you wine?” he asks as you approach.

“Do not trouble yourself, my lord. I am perfectly content.”

As you sit down beside him the scent of incense grows stronger; like perfume it clings to his robes and skin. His hands are folded in his lap and you see the tension in his white knuckles, in the way his rings bite into the soft flesh of his slender fingers.

“May I, my lord?” you ask cautiously.

He nods and you reach for one of his hands, pulling it into the lap of your black linen dress. You gently take off his rings, soothing the abused skin with a kiss. Your lord allows you to linger and when you press your lips to the next finger you meet his gaze. The warm light of the fire has softened his features even more but his eyes are keen as always as they observe your doings. When his lids flutter shut as you press yet another kiss to his knuckles it satisfies you greatly.

After a few more kisses you stand to rid yourself of the rings, placing them on his desk instead. The oils you brought him before his departure still lie in their basket and you take a deep purple phial before you settle by his side once again. Applying some drops to his wrist you begin to massage the tincture into his skin with a circular motion of your thumb. The lord sighs and visibly relaxes as the rich scent of lavender penetrates the air.

“How are you faring after your loss?” he asks after some silence.

“I am quite well, my lord. I have long since started the process of grieving, tethered to his bedside for years. Now the Stranger has ended his suffering and I feel at peace knowing that my husband is with the Gods.”

“I am glad to hear it. I would not wish for you to be in pain.”

“It is a tragedy,” you say, carefully then, “what happened to your grandson, my lord. Will the prince be alright?”

He gives a court nod. “He will, though I am afraid that his eye will not. But that is the price he paid for his dragon.”

“His dragon? You mean Vhagar, my lord?”

“Yes, my sweet. I am certain you heard the rumours.”

You smile at the term of endearment, ending your massage with a kiss to his palm before you reach for his other hand. The lord is rather pliant, allowing you to move him this way or that with the odd grunt of amusement. You do not dare ask for details, aware that he is looking for distraction and comfort tonight.

“Such good care you take of me,” your lord says, his voice deep and calm. “I should like to have you in my chambers more often.”

You glance at him, your resolve melting at the fondness in his expression. “I should like to take care of my lord whenever he is in need of me.”

“Otto,” he corrects softly. “Please.”

You look into his eyes. “Otto.”

A smile, gentle and warm. You continue to relieve his muscles, giving his second hand just as much attention as the first. However, your heart is heavy as you sit on the news you do not wish to bring up. The letter that arrived this morning makes any moment you have with your lord bittersweet.

“I am not sure how many evenings we will have, my lord. It seems that the Gods do not wish to see us together,” you finally say.

His left eyebrow rises. “What do you mean, my girl?”

“A letter arrived this morning in which my father requests my presence at our family’s seat.” You swallow, trying to hide the bitterness in your voice. “An old friend of his has expressed a specific interest in me and the match would bring me much closer to my family.”

“I certainly cannot fault him, my darling. Your presence is a gift to anyone who is fortunate enough to enjoy it.” He begins to stroke your hair with his free hand, gently running his fingers through the loose strands that aren’t pinned to your head. His movement carries the calming scent of lavender back to your nose. “However, I shall not allow it.”

“My lord?”

“Otto,” he corrects again, his brow furrowed in disapproval as his fingers curl underneath your chin, firmly holding it in place.

You try again. “What do you mean, Otto?”

He resumes his attentions, trailing his hands over your shoulder now in a gentle caress that mirrors the movement of your hand. “I claim you as my own, sweet girl. Your father will not dismiss the request of the Hand, I am quite certain.”

You sit up straighter. “And you mean it?”

“I will not see us parted again,” he states and his hand comes to rest on your cheek, more tender now. “If it is agreeable to you then I will send word to your lord father and after a reasonable period of mourning we arrange for the wedding.”

You cannot hide your relieved smile. “That is most agreeable to me, Otto.”

“Very good.”

You resume the treatment of his hand, noting the subtly pleased smile on his lips. He has always been sweet with you, sweeter than with anyone else as you know him to be stern and not too sentimental outside of his family. As a child you interpreted the changes in his demeanour as sympathy, pity even, and perhaps it truly was at times but now you realise that he must have always had this soft spot for you. Perhaps this was inevitable, perhaps it was always meant to be like this.

His hand tenses in yours, then, and his expression sours. “I do not know the extent to which my daughter has let you in on the tensions that are rising within the royal family but I feel that I must–”

“I am aware,” you gently interrupt with a hand on his arm, not wanting him to speak the words that trouble his mind. “My lord – Otto – whatever may come, I promised my Queen to be by her side a long time ago. In what function matters not.”

Perhaps it is his fatigue that makes him accept your decision so easily or perhaps it is the conviction in your voice. You were always rather adamant that you saw yourself by his side, that you were loyal first and foremost to your queen’s party. When your eyes meet you exchange a silent promise and there is no need to speak of it any longer.

Otto’s hands reach for yours then, softened by the oils. His eyes take in the sight of the finely wrought cuffs adorning your wrists, his thumbs trailing their rims where they meet your skin. The bracelets are narrow enough to remain delicate but still allow for the emerald ornamentations that run along their outer curve to stand out. The gems sparkle in the firelight, endless shades of green.

“Do you like them, my darling?” he asks.

“They are beautiful, Otto.”

He smiles, then runs his thumb over the matching ring on your finger. “I had them made for you before I left for Driftmark.”

For a brief moment the memory of him gifting you the jewel flickers in your mind, how hesitant he was at the time and how you both had to stop yourselves from speaking the truth of your feelings. Now he seems less hesitant to stake his claim, less hesitant to open himself to you.

“Thank you for such generous gifts, Otto,” you whisper. “I do not know how I deserve them.”

“You are deserving of more than mere jewels,” he replies, grasping your hands even tighter. You are surprised by the strength he still has in them. “You must know how very dear you are to me.”

You give a weak nod, getting lost in the intensity of his blue eyes. His lips part and you realise that you have leaned closer, a mere hairsbreadth separating you. The rough tips of his beard tickle your chin and you shut your eyes. His breath is warm against your lips.

“Otto–”

You want to ask for it but you cannot bring yourself to say the words. He does not close the distance but he also does not pull away. You blink your eyes back open and find his brow deeply furrowed, his eyes trained on your mouth.

He is conflicted, you can see it plainly written on his face. “You are in mourning, I would not offend–”

“There is no offence,” you whisper. “Otto–”

“If you are sure–”

Your lips meet before he finishes as you desperately press yourself against him. He groans lowly, his grasp on your hands tightening as he leans into you. Your lord tastes of sweet wine and tart berries, the flavours of a fading summer. No kiss has ever felt so warm and inviting but then you have gone without a lover’s touch for so long that you can hardly remember.

With some effort your lord pulls away, a sharp exhale through his nose following. His forehead comes to rest against yours, fingers searching for your cheeks as he cradles your head. “Is this what you want?”

“You said the Gods placed me in your hands,” you whisper in reply, skin prickling where his beard touched it. “I believe you are right.”

He presses another kiss to your lips, long thumbs swiping along your cheekbones. “You would let me have you, tonight?”

“I would let you have me every night.”

“Hm, such tempting promises.”

His lips wander, so very soft in contrast to his beard as they travel along the sharp line of your jaw and down to the much more sensitive skin of your neck. You inhale the smell that clings to his hair, incense, lavender and something that is distinctly Otto, some mix of ink, parchment and the crackling fire in front of you.

“We have denied ourselves for so long.” Your voice is desperate even to your own ears. “I do not think we have to repent any longer for sins of the past.”

“No,” he whispers against your jugular. “We give thanks to the Seven for their graciousness. Worship–”

“Worship?”

He stops as his hands stray, ghosting along your bare neck and then, suddenly, he tugs at your bodice. You gasp in surprise, and after another attempt it finally loosens, your breasts spilling over your dress as you shiver in the cool air. The lord’s warm hands soon find the soft flesh and with his slender fingers he kneads them, drawing noises from you that sound so very unfamiliar to your ears. You can tell that he is quite overcome as well. His breathing comes in hard bursts that betray his state and yet he is gentle with you, careful.

“Worship their gift,” he clarifies, glancing down at your partly revealed body. “Cherish it, treasure it.”

His mouth presses to the pliant curve of your breast and you realise that it is you he is idolising, your body the sole object of his adoration. You are melting under his lips, the reverence with which he kisses every bit of exposed skin exhilarating and new. When his warm mouth closes around your nipple you bury your hand in his hair and he moans deeply, wantonly. You feel yourself clenching at the sound.

It must have been some time since he touched a woman and just like you even the simplest contact seems to affect him. You would explore the possibilities if he allowed you to but presently he is too occupied with the mechanisms of your dress. You gently urge him away and help with the fastenings on your back, but he soon finds that he prefers to peel it off your skin in a rather slow, torturous fashion.

“Black,” he states with a hint of distaste, freeing your arm from one of the wide sleeves.

“I know my lord prefers me in green,” you whisper.

“And soon you shall be wearing it for me, my darling. It suits you so well.”

It gives you a thrill to have him take off your mourning dress with which you commemorate your late husband, a husband who shamed you for your attraction to the very man you are intimate with now. It is a sick feeling, a sinful feeling, to strip off your memory of him so soon and give into your desires with the man he so loathed. It gives you a perverse sense of satisfaction. But you have suppressed your needs for too long and you think it truly must be a sign of the Gods that they have brought you and Otto Hightower together again tonight.

When you are in nothing but your shift, the lord sinks from the daybed and kneels in front of you, bunching up the sheer fabric until your legs are exposed. You want to alert him that he should not rest on his poor joints on the cool stone floor but then his lips press to the inside of your knee and the thought is forgotten. He is yet unhurried, languid kisses pressed to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, the roughness of his beard sending pleasant tingles into your belly.

The nearer he draws to your core the more restless you become. You feel yourself getting wet, throbbing in anticipation. You grasp at his hair, a blush spreading over your cheeks and when he does not stop you tug at the thinning strands. The lord’s eyes find yours, heavy-lidded, and you feel the warmth of shame blossoming in your chest at the lustful display.

“My lord, I have never–”

“Otto,” he corrects yet again, a mild reproach with one hand stroking your calf. “Lean back, my girl, I want a taste.”

It is not a request. You rest your back against the brocade and he grabs one of your thighs, placing it over his shoulder to reveal your private parts to him, to angle your hips just right. He holds your gaze and even though your heart is hammering almost too violently you cannot bring yourself to deny him. His lust-blown pupils paint his eyes black, a thin sheen of sweat gathering on his brow. It is an odd sight, a new sight, the usually so composed and controlled lord driven by his carnal impulses in a rare loss of composure.

He beholds you for another moment to make sure you are in agreement before he presses his mouth to your cunt. It is entirely too much, the lighting bolts of pleasure it sends into your body, the way he feels so hot and wet against your most sensitive parts. You moan, an obscene sound that you stifle with your hand the moment it leaves your lips. Otto’s eyelids flutter shut and his lips part against you. His tongue is soft in contrast to his beard that is chafing your thighs, licking along your slit and flattening against the sensitive bud at the top that you only rarely found the courage to explore on your own. He continues like this, his nose pressed to the swelling knob while he devours you like a man starved. When the lord pulls away to breathe you roll your hip in his direction, trying for more, and he gives an amused chuckle.

“You are a wanton thing,” he says. “I should have known.”

He says it fondly, running a thumb over the coarse hair that gathers where your legs meet, wet with your arousal and his own spit. He rubs along your slit then, circling the spot that lures the most sensual sounds from you. Your hips move on their own accord, trying to meet his rhythm, and you feel the heat building in your lower belly as he stokes the fire.

“Please–”

You clench around nothing and the lord withdraws, leaving you aching. His beard is glistening wetly in the light and you watch as he cleans the digit with a low hum. “My girl has the sweetest of tastes.”

You do not know whether he speaks the truth but his eyes are filled with devotion and desperate longing. When he stands, you pull your legs to your body to nurse the dampness and unsatisfied pulsing between them. The lord flinches as he straightens his knees, no doubt feeling the pain you anticipated but he recovers before you can inquire and reaches for your hand to help you up. You understand he does not wish to feel old tonight.

“On the bed,” he says.

His voice is firm and controlled. When you stand before him he surprises you with a hungry kiss,  hands following the lines of your scantily clad form and squeezing at every bit of soft flesh he can reach. You feel like a debauched woman and modesty seems to be out of place. With shaking hands you pull your shift over your head and crawl onto his heavy four poster bed. The fabric of his sheets feels soft against your bare skin and you sense a thrill running through you at the prospect of what he might do to you. You are nude safe for the jewellery he bestowed you with.

“You are an exquisite sight,” he says as he watches you from the foot of the bed, the buttons of his garments coming undone with practiced fingers. “And you are mine now, sweet girl. Does it please you?”

You forget to reply, quite distracted as he reveals the tunic he wears underneath. The lord knows, as he always does. The admiration for his body must be written all over your face and you cannot look away as he fully exposes his torso to you. Despite his age his body is that of a knight, toned in places but overall softened by decades spent behind his desk. Tufts of greying hair cover most of his chest, the supple curve of his belly resting right above where he is already hard inside of his breeches.

The same bravery you felt all those years ago takes hold of you at the sight of him and on your knees you crawl over to where he is standing. Cautiously, you run your hands through the hair covering his upper body, feeling the soft skin underneath. He seems rather docile, allowing you to squeeze and palm whereever you want to, silence interspersed with the odd hum of approval at your exploration. Starved for the touch of a woman there is no resistance but a deep infatuation in his eyes. Perhaps he is just as enamoured with the sight and feel of you as you are with his.

“Pleased is hardly a word I would use at present,” you finally reply and allow your hand to cup him through his breeches. “Are you aching for me, too?”

A dry huff of a laugh, as though the question itself is superfluous. Two fingers tilt your chin up, the fire burning in his eyes answer enough. His free hand dives into your hair, not gentle but not rough as he frees it from its constraints and allows it to fall over your shoulders. Once he can angle your head how he pleases the lord closes the distance and litters your neck with kisses, teeth and tongue teasing at your skin. You find the fastenings of his breeches but your fingers are too jittery. The more you palm at him the rougher his kisses become until all breaths between you are drawn in desperation.

His patience has run thin. He climbs onto the bed, effectively urging you to lie back as he settles between your legs. His weight on top of you is heavenly, the feel of his skin against yours enough to have you whimpering underneath him. Otto grabs your wrists, one in each hand, pinning them down on either side of your head. The gold cuffs bite into your skin but not unpleasantly so with his warm hands covering them. His fingers slot between yours, grasping them, and you feel your pulse hammering against the ball his hand. Large as they are his hands almost completely cover your smaller ones and as his weight comes to rest on his forearms you feel like he is spreading you open for him.

“You are a sight for the Gods,” he whispers. “Such beauty, even they must envy me.”

You buck your hips, desperate for the feel of him now that he is within reach. “Please, Otto–”

“Needy, shameless,” he chides, voice sultry and deep. “Tell me, how many times have you fantasised of this? Or have you stopped counting?”

The arrogance in his tone only makes you want him more. His hands tighten almost painfully in yours as he kisses you, feverish and filthy, forcing his tongue between your lips with a distinct possessiveness. It is evident that he intents to claim you in more ways than just adorning you with jewels. You are not resisting but you cannot match his pace, overwhelmed with the intensity of your desires for him.

When his mouth releases yours, bruised and wet, you moan at the loss of him. The gasping breath you take burns in your lungs and once again you cannot help but tilt your pelvis to try and find some relief.

“Shhhhh, I know,” he whispers. “I will have you, my girl. You were very patient.”

The blood flows back through your wrists when his tight grasp loosens and he finally works his breeches open. His member is coated in arousal, thick and throbbing after his own stalling. You release a sob when you feel him sliding between your folds, grazing your swollen bud. The lord groans when you reach down to help him find your entrance and you notice how hot he is, how painfully stiff against your soft fingers.

“Yes,” you whisper when you feel his tip parting you. “Please, more.”

He relents, tries to go slow for your sake but you are slick and worked up and one thrust is enough to fill you to completion. The feeling is unlike any of which you have experienced before, no pain or discomfort but just the dizzying need for more of him that burns through your veins. He stretches you open, both of you glancing at where your bodies join so beautifully before your eyes meet once more. Your lord takes your wrists again, softer now, and as your hands link together it is you this time who tightens their grasp.

He begins to rock his hips, gentle at first as he holds your gaze, swallows the first of your moans with his puffed lips. Soon his thrusts harden, the pace he sets merciless as he drives himself into you over and over. You are both too sensitive for it to last long, the lingering fire inside of you spreading into your fingertips, your toes, and you feel as though you could explode with the sheer bliss of it all.

You come undone a moment later, crying out his name and spasming with a force you have not known before. Your lord holds you and you sink into the feeling, trembling and weightless in his arms. Otto hums at the sight but he only pauses for a moment before he resumes his movements, prolonging the pleasurable sensation. He moves to pull out of you as he nears his own end and you catch his wrist, pressing it against your chest.

“No,” you whine. “Please.”

He holds your gaze as he continues to take you, chasing his own pleasure more savagely than before. You cradle his face, brush the sweaty hair back that has fallen into his forehead, and when he finds his release the sound that comes from his throat is broken. His hips still but you feel the heat of his spend as he fills you, his body going slack on top of yours after the efforts of the night.

You recover with his gasping breath warming the crook of your neck and even though he is resting some of his weight on his elbows his strength has ultimately left him. Wet skin clings to wet skin, soft and comforting as you stroke his back through the aftershocks. Your chests heave in sync and you swear you can feel his heartbeat matching your own.

A deep sigh tickles your shoulder, then, and he carefully rolls you onto your sides, wrapping you up in his arms as he gathers you against his chest. The position is much more comfortable and you curl up against him with a warm, sated feeling in your belly.

“Will you stay a while?” he asks.

“For as long as you will have me,” you reply, using the quiet to allow your fingers to explore more of his chest. “I thought you might tell me about Oldtown.”

A smile, so soft and genuine that your heart stutters. The lord brushes your hair back, thumb following the line of your brow down to your jaw and resting on your lips. You can only imagine the mess you look but he does not seem to mind.

“Perhaps you should like to dine with me tomorrow?” he asks.

“I should like that very much.”

“Good,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. “Very good.”

He is exhausted and you know sleep will take him within moments. Lips softly pressed below his ear you reach for the end of the comfort and provisionally pull it over your entangled bodies. The fire is still burning but you know you will catch a chill once your skin cools. You will have to leave before the morrow but right now dawn is far away and you are too content to rest in the safety of his arms. At last.

Epilogue: A year later

A yawn parts the lord’s lips. He stifles the noise quite quickly but it does not escape your notice how his hand flies to his mouth. He so rarely makes a sound, a man of silent concentration, choosing every word with a deliberation that requires his full attention.

You smile to yourself. “I did not take you for a man who falls victim to ennui, husband.”

“It is a slow night,” he concedes, rubbing an ink-stained finger along his brow.

“And you have copied this letter…”

“Seven times, my heart.”

You softly close the book you have been reading while sitting in quiet companionship with the Lord Hand. You so love watching him when he dedicates his evenings to his correspondence, the scratching of the quill a calming noise in the background.

“Perhaps I can aid his lordship in finding a less tiresome occupation?”

He leans back in his chair, surrendering the quill as well as his efforts as you saunter over. A smile tugs at his lips, amusement. You find him less serious these days, less stern, at least when he’s sharing your company. The months have been kind to you both.

“My darling wife is as insatiable as during our first night,” he muses, pulling you into his lap.

“How disappointing, I made such an effort to become worse.”

He kisses the mock pout from your lips. For a man who has aged so gracefully his hunger has not dwindled. He tells you that your enthusiasm keeps him youthful and perhaps that is true. After over a decade in a love and passionless marriage you have a lot to make up for. Otto is happy to indulge you.

“The hour is late,” you whisper against his lips, a subtle proposition.

“Indeed,” he says, one hand sliding up your hip, then pressing down gently on your belly. “What are we to do with this hunger of yours, lady wife?”

“Perhaps my neglectful husband can sate me.”

“Neglectful?”

“At times I feel that he prefers the touch of his quill over mine.”

He lifts you abruptly, placing you on the surface of his desk where you can hear the parchment crumpling underneath your skirts. Your lord stands tall in front of you, broad-chested yet slender of frame save the small pouch of his belly. You trace the soft curve up to his chest but he quickly grasps your chin to draw your gaze up to his, ever imperious.

“Audacious,” he chides, “that you would make such accusations.”

The hint of teasing in his voice sets you alight. His long fingers curl underneath your jaw, denting your cheeks with his grip. With a raised eyebrow he studies your face, knowingly, your flushed skin betraying his effect on you. His patience is like to drive you mad as he is methodical and studious even in your shared intimacy. You think he reads you as though you are words written on a page of his books, drawing meaning from tracing the shape of you with his eyes.

Only when you are writhing does he close the distance in a heated kiss. As if to prove you wrong his hands eagerly roam your body, unfastening the lacings on your dress and groping every soft spot he meets in the process. Before long you find yourself stripped and heaving under the strain of your passion. It is a well-rehearsed dance by now, the undressing, the way from his desk to the bed where your lord likes to take his time with you, pleasuring you, teasing you until your begs and whimpers fill the quiet of the chamber and at last he is satisfied.

Under the canopy he leaves scratchy, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat as his fingers work you open. So far his seed has not taken and the maesters are not sure it will. You had hoped that you could refute the rumours of your barrenness but even so your second marriage is a much happier one than your first. The Gods have been good to you and you wonder if in time you may be blessed with a son after all.

“Focus on me, my girl,” Otto rasps, then, and you find him staring down at you, pupils so wide that they swallow his irises. His hair has fallen into his face, thin strands clinging to his forehead. You reach out to brush them back and as always he leans into your touch, starved for affection. An ink smudge stains his brow. He works so much that the signs never leave his face.

“Forgive me, I lost myself for a moment,” you whisper and push at his shoulder.

He removes himself and sinks into the pillows beside you, reclining with a soft, weary sigh. You climb on top of him, easing him inside of you. Otto pulls you forward, wrapping his arms around you as you both begin to rock against each other. You can feel his soft chest hair tickling your breasts, pressed together as you are, and you breathe broken moans into each others mouths.

“Where were your thoughts, then?” he whispers, biting into the soft skin of your neck.

“I thought about the future,” you say. “I thought about you giving me a son.”

His hips buck and you keen as he hits you deeper than before. You tug at the hair on the back of his head, following his rhythm as he groans into your ear with that deep, raspy voice. You smile, enjoying the feel and sound of him so desperate for you.

Whatever the future may hold, you know that you will never tire of this, the small intimacies with your lord, the knowledge that he burns for you so vigorously after a lifetime forced to spent apart. You can taste your own fire on his lips, feel it as you both crest and his seed drips down your legs. Otto kept the promise he gave you – he made things right, he cherished you, and now nothing shall part you again.

“I am doing something I learned early to do, I am paying attention to small beauties, whatever I have – as if it were our duty to find things to love, to bind ourselves to this world.” – Sharon Olds, from "Little Things"; Strike Sparks: Selected Poems, 1980-2002

Thank you so much for reading! Kudos, comments, reblogs etc are as always much appreciated but most of all I hope you enjoyed the story ♡

Masterlist – my Ao3

[b00kdiary]

Dreamer | Rhysand (I)

Rhysand x Reader

Rhysand begrudgingly goes to Hewn City to secure a marriage pact that will indefinitely bond the two Courts together- but the fine ladies of the Court of Nightmares are not what he wants or needs.

Instead, he discovers Lady Y/N, and she has no qualms about telling him how he has failed this City and her. This is more than just coincidence, it’s fate.

Warnings: long chapters, mature content (18 +) swearing, eventual smut.

MASTERLIST - 1 and 2

"High Lord, Rhysand of the Night Court."

I reach the top of the dais as my name is announced, my footsteps echoing against the polished floor and the sound bounces through the room, through the tense silence. No one speaks, they barely breathe, as I slowly turn, my face a sheet of ice as I settle onto my throne.

I let a nonchalant smile tug at my lips, the dark mask of a tyrant slipping into place as I eye the endless room before me. A macabre and dreary setting with its ebony walls and onyx ceiling, the beasts carved into the cavernous stone a mirror to the type of Fae who lived in this City.

I emulate the darkness as I lean back, my long legs spreading apart and my fingers curling into the engraved snake form that curves around the throne, the head peering out over my shoulder, my own personal monster.

I cock my head at the dozens of males before me, Council Members, my violet eyes twinkling in amusement as they all remained bowed, knees pressed to the floor, heads lowered and waiting for my word.

"You may rise," I drawl, my tone the picture of boredom, and as Kier and his peers rise to their feet, I see the apprehension and distaste on their faces for me, for my inner circle. Kier observes me, his brown eyes flickering at the prolonged silence. "Kier?"

"As usual, it is an honour to have you here, High Lord," Kier inclines his head, scurrying forward as he speaks, his own mask of reverence slipping into place as he stops before me. "As the steward of Hewn City, I am delighted by your decision to unite our two Courts through marriage, as are the Council present here today."

I see the way my Court stiffens, Mor, Cassian and Azriel all flanked at the bottom of the dais seem to go unnaturally still, the stones in their eyes wholly- unable to hide their disapproval of this whole arrangement.

"We all have our duties, Kier, the Court must always come first," My lips tilt in a mocking smile, and Kier shrivels under the tendrils of dark power that dance around me, an omnipresent threat so at odds with my amused gaze, "My marriage to a Lady of Hewn City will be a victory for us all."

Marriage.

The word tastes like poison on my tongue, any hopes and dreams I had once harboured turning to ash in my mouth at the cold reality I was faced with. To marry a female, I didn't know or love, to mate with her and sire a child, and secure an alliance with the Court of Nightmares indefinitely.

Heavy is the head that bears the crown indeed.

"It will be an alliance venerated for generations to come, I'm sure," Kier smiles, an ugly, wretched sight and I saw Mor shiver in my peripheral, an imperceptible movement, a conditioned reaction to her father. "High Lord, may I introduce to you the fine ladies selected by the Council."

I brace myself, masking my dread with an entertained smirk, drawing on the worst parts of myself, the worst parts of this place to hide the male that roared in warning to me inside. A click of doors opening at my left, and then several soft footsteps echoing into the chamber.

I stare, unyielding and silent, as several young women stride into the room, their heads bowed and back straight, adorned with fine clothes and finer jewellery as they stop at the foot of the dais before me.

They were fine, lovely even, tall, and thin, typical of High Fae female beauty and yet, despite their soft smiles and delicate frames, I frown.

"You can't be serious, even you wouldn't be this cruel," Mor releases a horrified, tight breath and both Cassian and Azriel step forward in unison, an impenetrable wall, as Kier's eyes turn to Mor and his lip curls. "These 'fine ladies' are girls, children, how old are they?"

The room shifted at her sharp words, Kier tensing at the accusation and the males of the Council muttering amongst themselves, their eyes burning as they glared at my cousin- at her supposed insolence for speaking out of turn.

"Their age is of little significance, girl," Kier sneers, that simpering fool mask he wore melting into revulsion and anger as he took in his outcasted daughter. My fingers curled around the throne under me as he spoke, that pit of darkness inside me churning. "They have all had their first bleed-"

"Cauldron," Cassian swore, his dark hair shifting as he moved his gaze over to those girls, and I saw his throat bob at the sight- so young, broken, pawns moved and used in a game of power.

"You're disgusting," Mor hissed, and I heard the pain clawing at her throat, her face pulled into a devastated frown as she took in those girls- and it was as if she were looking into a mirror, to the girl she had once been. "These girls are not chattel; you cannot sell their innocence for your own gain-"

"These ladies are being honoured, girl, an honour that you will never understand," Kier snarled, his emphasis on honour so clear, an indirect assault on Mor's character, on the choice she made to free herself. "To marry the High Lord is a privilege, one these ladies are eager for-"

Azriel's shadows thrum around him, restless, wild, and I knew his control was wearing thin the longer Kier spoke, the longer those girls stood before us, trembling under the burden on their shoulders.

"Enough." One word, low and sinister, and every mouth in the room closed, every Fae in the room turned utterly still at the command.

I grit my teeth, letting the furious power within me radiate into the room, let it dance through the air, brush against my subjects, let them feel the warning, the threat, that I was. I smile as their faces pale, flinching back from the vile magic, a reminder that I could destroy them without even lifting a hand.

"Kier, I am going to choose to believe that this decision was made out of sheer stupidity rather than insolence," My voice is a calm storm, but my eyes- they rage with a current of violence and death, the kind that made males twice my age blanche- and they do. "I will choose to believe that you did not invite me here to waste my time- you wouldn't dare be so foolish, would you Kier?"

I shifted forward in my seat, my eyes narrowing down at the male, and it took all the restraint in me not to shatter every bone in his body, to not pluck his eyes from his head and tear his tongue from his mouth- and he sees that desire to inflict pain upon him in my gaze.

"Never, High Lord, I would not dream of-" Kier barely contains his stuttering words, a mixture of fear, indignation and humiliation lacing through his widening gaze, but like the worm he was, he bowed his head to me in remorse. "It was a grave misjudgement, one that will not be repeated again."

"Good- I desire to sire a child, Kier, not marry one," I sneer, my disgust prevalent across every hard inch of my face as I turn from Kier, moving my eyes across every last council member, "Just as I am sure you all agree, these girls have many more years left to enjoy their youth, yes?"

I make the threat clear in my words, make them clear in my eyes- touch these girls and die.

None oppose me, their hearts hammering in their chests as they nod their head in agreement, subservient and controlled- and a small kernel of satisfaction fills me, that they felt a fraction of what the girls before me did.

"Kier, join me in the Council Room," I stand from my chaise, and as if it were muscle memory, every single person in the room falls to a knee and drops their heads as I descend the stairs. "Let us discuss the consequences you'll all face should you disappoint me again."

***

"Y/N, a union between the High Lord and a Lady of Hewn City is exactly the chance we've been waiting for," Cassandra pestered, her wide eyes pleading with me, but I ignored her again, choosing to instead clean the Council Room for the next meeting with haste. "It's a chance for change."

"Who are you trying to convince, Cassie- me or yourself?" I mutter, raising a dark brow at her as I tuck in the oak chairs, shoving them into place harder than was needed. "This marriage is a farce, and you're deluding yourself by thinking otherwise."

Cassie groans, the sound reverberating through the empty room, and I try to not laugh at her as she rushes around the endless table, her sea-blue eyes rolling as she stops beside me.

"Why must you be such a pessimist?" Cassie demands, her cold, slim fingers ripping the papers from my hand and slamming them onto the table before me. "With a lady from our Court married to the High Lord, we can finally hope, we will have someone on our side- to help us, to fix this Cauldron-forsaken City-"

"And who would that be?" I scoff out a laugh, a bitter, hollow sound as I turn my hard gaze to her, strands of my loose hair brushing my hot cheeks as I move, "Thanatos's daughter despises the Court of Dreams, Kier's nieces care more about fine jewels and clothes than people, and the other daughters are afraid of their own shadows, they would shit themselves at the sight of the High Lord and his inner circle."

Cassie purses her lips at my harsh words, and I frown, sighing deeply at the look of dejection on her lovely face, hating myself for snuffing out the light that had filled her eyes. But it had to be done- some people were not meant to dream.

"I'm sorry, Cassie, I know you wish it were otherwise, I do too," I force back the lump in my throat as I turn from her, hating the way my lip trembled and my hands felt weak, "But this marriage will benefit nobody but the High Lord, his court, and the males of the Council- that's it. They have never and will never care, there is no one on our side but us."

Silence fills the room at my hoarse dead words, and the reality of them, the reality that we were truly and irrevocably stuck in this life, in this cycle of hell made my eyes burn.

"It saddens me that you feel that way, My Lady," A deep, velvety voice rasped from behind me, and the air went taut at the unfathomable power that penetrated the room.

Cassandra gasped, something spilling from her hand and dropping to the floor with a deafening crunch. My stomach twists into knots as I brace myself, all the blood leeching from my face as I turn- to where the High Lord stood, his inner circle and Kier watching on either side.

"High Lord," Cassie choked on the title, choked on her fear and before the male before us could speak, she stumbled down to a knee, her head bowed and her golden hair falling forward to shield the terror on her face.

I couldn't move, not even as the voice inside me screamed and begged for me to bow, to submit myself to him- for I had heard stories of Rhysand.

Of his abilities as a Daemati, able to shatter a person's mind without lifting a hand, of his ruthlessness as High Lord, reducing people to ash with a smile on his lovely face, of all the horrific things he had done in his five hundred years of existence.

And it seemed he saw it on my face, perhaps even saw it in my mind, the nightmares and tales, the horrors spread about him in the City, about the kind of male he was.

His violet gaze narrowed, the constellations in them beaming as he stared at me, as he cocked his head, his lips pursed into a thin line- as if observing me. I shook under the silent act, the unyielding hold he had over me, as well as the gazes of his court at his side.

"Y/N!" Cassie hissed under her breath, her head turning and her silver-lined eyes meeting mine, tears sullying the usually tranquil blue as she pleaded with me to move, to bow.

"Insolent girl," Kier spat, his gaze hard as he glared at me and the breath caught in my lungs as a dark eclipse of magic shot from him, striking against my stomach, hard enough that I lurched forward in pain and then another hit a second later, slamming into my jaw. "Bow before your High Lord."

I groaned as I fell to a knee, the impact of the bone against the polished floor striking through my whole leg and up my body, but that was nothing compared to the throb that burned through my stomach and the cut at my lip, the taste of metal filling my mouth.

I heard a gasp, a feminine sound of surprise and concern from above me as I leaned forward, my eyes pinched shut and every breath feeling like glass in my lungs as I tried to compose myself- forcing down the pain in my jaw, in my stomach, in my heart.

I heard footsteps and then the room went still, as if a blanket of ice had fallen over us.

"High Lord, she-she was being impudent-" Begging and broken words, riddled with fear and my eyes shot open at the sound of a sickening crunch, an agonised scream following it, and the aura of death filling the space.

"No, you are impudent, Kier," That voice again, but now it sounded different- the kind of mercilessness that could haunt a person's nightmares, that could be found in the darkest hollows of hell. "You do not touch her, or any other female, ever."

Another crunch and I recognise the sound now, it was bones splintering, tendons tearing, blood gushing and Kier cried out again, a horrible, strangled sound.

"Leave," The High Lord breathed the command, and I felt the floor shake under his restraint like he was funnelling his power down into the ground as an anchor. "and do not heal that hand, I want you to remember my words today, Kier."

I keep my head low, staring at the floor, unable to look up as footsteps bound away, fast and stumbling and I cringe at the sight of blood leaking against the floor, a trail following after Kier as he exits the room.

And despite the tendrils of pain still wrecking through me- I internally groaned at the thought of having to clean the blood up.

An amazed huff of air left the High Lord, it sounded almost like a laugh, but I didn't dare raise my head. Not even as he slowly sauntered over, his footsteps deliberate and slow, I didn't even look up when that trail of blood vanished, magicked away, leaving behind not even a stain in memory.

He stopped before me, and my heart thrummed so loud I knew they could all hear it.

"My Lady," Rhysand murmured, his voice soft now, like a caress of wind against my skin. I swallow down the bitter taste in my mouth, my eyes fluttering as I lift my head- to see the hand he had reaching down for me. "Please, rise."

I blink at the outreached hand, heat filling my cheeks at Rhysand's tender gaze, any whisper of violence or darkness gone, replaced by something so much sweeter. I gnaw on my cheek, my hand sweating and shaking as I reach forward, gently placing my palm in his.

The second our hands connect, something charges through me, bright and sharp and strong and for a second Rhysand's eyes widen, just for a second, but then he blinks at it's gone- as if I had imagined it.

"Thank you, High Lord," I breathe and his fingers curl firmly around my palm as I wince, my knees shaking and knocking as I rise to my feet. He whispers something gently under his breath, his head glancing sideways, and I sigh when Cassandra rises too, her slender frame curling back as she stands.

I crane my neck to meet Rhysand's eyes, and upon seeing my face, seeing the cut leaking blood at my lip, his expression hardens. He still hadn't let go of my hand, his large, ringed fingers still gripping around me like a vice, calming the trembling shakes that ran through me.

"I apologise for Kier's actions," Rhysand sighed, his dark lashes fluttering as he slowly slipped his hand from mine, moving to the pocket of his jacket, his fingers pulling free the cloth there. My hand felt cold as it fell back to my side, but as Rhysand lifted the cloth between his fingers, my head hazed.

I didn't breathe, couldn't, as Rhysand gently brushed the soft cloth against the cut at my lip, soaking the material with blood and being so careful that I didn't even feel the pain stinging at the touch. I feel the surprised stare of Cassie at my side, of his family at his back, but nothing deterred Rhysand.

"I should be the one to apologise, High Lord," I stutter, finally feeling like I can breathe as he pulls his hand away, and I blink away the fog, clearing my throat as I step back, as I let the bubble, he created around us pop. "I spoke out of turn, and I should have bowed-"

"You don't need to apologise for your honesty or anything else," He shook his head, the soft waves of his blue-black hair shifting with the movement, and I forced myself to not stare at every inch of his handsome face. "I don't punish Ladies for words spoken in earnest between friends."

I nod, uncertainty and weariness shining in my gaze as I take in his intense half-smile, a smile that seems to brighten when I glance at Cassandra, looking equally as confused as me, and I shrug weakly.

"Though I will admit I am rather taken aback by your words, Lady Y/N," I shiver at the sound of my name on his silver tongue, at the way he cocked his head down at me, a purely predatory move, as he spoke. "I would like to hear more of your thoughts on the matter."

Hear my thoughts?

I go still at his easy words, at the question rather than a command, and Cassie releases a puff of air- like there wasn't enough oxygen in the room to placate her aching lungs.

"What?" I croak and then wince at the insolence behind my words, a habit that I couldn't shake in front of the High Lord. I pinch my eyes shut at the way his lip quirks, and my embarrassment is worsened by the small chuckle that General Cassian huffs out. "I mean- I'm not sure that's-"

"Now, now- don't go all shy on me, My Lady," Rhysand purred, nonchalance highlighted in every inch of his muscled form as he tucked the cloth back into his pocket and grinned at me, like a lion before devouring a lamb. "I think we're past the point of formalities, yes?"

***

"There is no one on our side but us."

The words were so hollow and defeated, the type of ruined that spoke of no hopes, dreams, or future, just nothing. And it was hard to explain what I felt at the words, like a sharp pain as if she had reached into my chest and torn out my heart with her bare hand.

She said that they have never and will never care- 'they' being me, my court, the people around me now and the ones left behind in my City of Starlight.

Sincere words, loaded words, spoken by a female behind closed doors, in confidence to her friend- and yet, I had overheard.

I wasn't sure what to expect when stepping into this room and wasn't sure what kind of female I would be confronted with. I had anticipated a female full of loathing and darkness, a kind of anger that would burn in her eyes, that could be seen through every breath she took, in every inch of her skin as she moved.

And yet, as I stared at the girl before me, I was met with the exact opposite.

The other lady, Cassandra, had become a shaking mess the second her blue eyes laid upon me, her breaths gasping from her as if everyone would be the last. She was terrified because that was all she knew in this city; it was all she knew of me.

But Lady Y/N was different- she was frightened by me, yes, I saw it in her doe-like eyes, saw it in the memories that flashed through her mind of me, the tales of my cruelty and brutality, the blood that stained my hands and the darkness that tainted my heart.

But she didn't look away, as if she couldn't.

Here she was faced with a monster that mothers warned their children about, yet she stared at me as if she saw me- and was as beguiled by me as I was by her.

"Now, now- don't go all shy on me, My Lady," I smile, the tightness in my chest easing as a stain tints her plump cheeks, and her chocolate eyes widen, "I think we're past the point of formalities, yes?"

Her friend swallows, audible and thick, as if struggling to get down air and Azriel shifts on his feet, his brow furrowed as if concerned the girl might collapse. Y/N glances at her, and amusement fills me at the small, confused shrug she gives her.

"You won't uh-" She clears her throat, her hand coming up to brush a stray strand of hair from her face, and I watch every single movement as she tucks the silken strand over a perfectly arched ear, revealing the smooth column of her neck. "You won't turn me to dust, right?"

I snort, a short and amazed sound, and she gnaws on her lip, avoiding the cut there and I have to begrudgingly tear my gaze away when my court steps forward, my brothers half-smiling and Mor looking at Y/N as if she was as charmed by her as I was.

"No, no, Lady Y/N," My mask slips and slips until it's completely gone, and I'm glad that Kier left, glad that none but her saw me like this because it felt freeing, to be in this Cauldron-forsaken place and be able to genuinely smile. "No one will be turned to dust, on my honour as High Lord."

"Please do tell us," Mor steps forward, a small smile on her red-pained lips and Y/N's breath hitches at the eyes on her, at the attention. "Contrary to what you may think, we do care."

Y/N considers, and I can hear her heart hammering in her chest, fast and loud and endless, but despite that she lifts her chin and something raw runs through me at the look in her eyes- the bravery.

"I- I think that Hewn City is a cesspit, full of the worst kind of Fae and every amoral despicable thing a person could do happens here," She breathes, and her soft body trembles with the exhale, as if speaking these words aloud were exactly the catharsis she needed. "And to be honest, I blame you for that."

Surprise- it fills me and every single other person in the room.

"Y/N!" Cassandra gasps, and her eyes seem to widen further, impossibly big, latching onto me and full of pleading, "She doesn't mean that- she must be more delirious than anticipated from the-"

"Cassie, please," Y/N scoffs, a hollow and low sound, and the tension in the air goes thick as they glance at each other. "Someone needs to say it, it might as well be me."

I fold my arms across my chest, my lips pursing as they stare at each other, some internal telepathic conflict waging between them, in their eyes and despite my abilities, despite the fact, that it would be so easy for me to slip into their minds and wade through all their thoughts, I don't.

I glanced back at my Court, who stood just behind me, and their faces were contemplative too- not angry, nor offended, but shocked- here was this girl, no older than twenty, with eyes as soft as a doe's, telling us exactly how we have failed.

"Please, continue," I nod, and I hope my eyes are encouraging, because even if I do not wish to hear her words, she was right, they needed to be said and I needed to hear them.

"For centuries, the Court of Nightmares and the Court of Dreams have been segregated and somehow we've fallen into two categories: good and bad," She swallows, and something aches in my chest at the sorrow on her lovely face, the burden, "But no one is born bad, people aren't inherently evil but growing up in a place like this? What else is there but the horrors we see and endure, what else are we destined to become?"

Another shaky inhale, a more broken exhale, and my magic burn inside me as if every desperate breath from her is like a call and my body is begging in answer.

"Your court has washed their hands of us, all of us because it was easier to believe that we were all damned than to try to help- the small minority have ruined the majority," Silver lines her hardening gaze, and I feel us all, every single one of us, go tense at the single tear that trickled down her cheek.

I hear a strangled sound come from behind me and my burning gaze glances back- to Mor, tears brimming her eyes and her lips trembling, watching the girl before us, and feeling every single atom of hurt as if it were her own.

"Morrigan was lucky enough to escape this City, these people because she had you- but do you truly think that she is the only good person born here, that in all these years, she is the only one worthy of salvation?"

More tears leak down Mor's face and Y/N's, endless, eternal, years of suffering in one single moment and I feel the guilt of my actions barrel down at me, a truth that I have spent years avoiding coming to light, like a thunderbolt to the heart.

I let my magic hold me down, let it root me in my spot- because those tears on her cheeks are tormenting me, ruining me, and it takes everything in me not to reach out and brush them away.

"So, forgive me if I have no hope left, that died in me, in all of us, long ago," Y/N clears her throat, her chest rising and falling in powerful waves and my throat is as dry as sand as she wipes the tears from her cheeks, "I- I think we could have all been dreamers- if only you had given us the chance."

In five hundred years, the mask I wore never slipped, never faltered, never was hard to wear- until right now. Right now, as my gaze locked with her, as I saw all the horrors she endured, because of my neglect, I couldn't even find that mask within me- it was gone.

There's silence, heavy and long and burdensome for what feels like hours as I stare at her, and I don't think I could look away even if I wanted to do and I don't, I don't want to.

Y/N inhales a sharp breath as I stalk towards her and the magic in me dances and whirls and strikes through the air, dark and ominous and wholly powerful. My jaw locks as she grabs out to her friend, Cassandra whimpering as Y/N yanks the girl behind her- a shield, against me.

Brave- so utterly brave. Willing to face off with a male five hundred years her senior and her High Lord, to protect her friend.

A Queen in her own right.

I stop before her, so close that I feel her breasts brush my chest, feel the small trembles that wreck through her body, can smell the lavender and jasmine on her perfect skin. She raises her eyes to me, and I see every ounce of her character, her heart and soul, as she tries to not cower before me.

"How old are you, My Lady?" I mutter, and she shivers under my easy words, her brow furrowing at the non-threat. "And what do you do here, your role?"

"Twenty-one, High Lord." She swallows, her tongue flicking out nervously to wet her lips and my hands clench at the sight, at the moisture on her pink mouth. "My father was Captain of an import chain for the City, I was given the role of Lady-in-waiting as a reward for his work."

I sense the curiosity and shock of my court behind me, the way they imperceptibly inch closer to me, to us, drawn in by my words- by the intention behind them.

"You believe the alliance is a farce, that it wouldn't change anything?" I ask, softer, and my power slips from me, curling around her curved hips and soft thighs, moving through her silken hair and over her sensitive skin- and she shakes her head, unable to speak. "What if I were to find a Lady of Hewn City who shared your sentiments, who desired for change and salvation just as you do- would that make you more inclined to hope?"

Cassandra sucked in a sharp breath, her blue eyes widening- in realisation. And I felt the air tauten, my inner circle going still, knowingly.

But Y/N cocked her head, a youthful move, not seeing what was right in front of her.

"Yes, I think that you marrying a Lady who genuinely cares for this City and its people would be a step in the right direction," She considers, and I can't fight my smile at the tender, sincere, confusion that pinches her lovely face. "Thought I seriously doubt you will find any such female here."

"Hm," A lazy grin stretches across my face, bright and sure, drawing from the feeling blooming in my chest, raw and new and terrifying as I stare down at her, "I already have."

"High Lord? I don't understand-" Her words melt into a gasp as my fingers caress her cheek, moving ever so gently against that sore cut at her lip- and satisfaction fills me when her eyes flutter, a breathy sound slipping from her.

"I have already found the perfect Lady to marry," Her face burns as I run my eyes languidly down her figure, across her entire face and body- and she stills as realisation fills her, "All you have to do is say yes, Y/N darling."

[flowerandblood]

The Man with the Cold Lips

[ Amor • Aemond x Psyche • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, oral sex, fingering, smut, angst, domination, violence, trauma, mourning ]

[ description: After she is attacked in a fair by a strange man and narrowly avoids death, her father the king decides that from now on she will be watched over by one of his ‘ghosts’, a assassin acting on his orders, wearing a black mask. The man follows her like a shadow, accompanied by their past, which keeps her awake at night. Gothic horror love story, angst, sexual tension, very dark Aemond. ]

This story is several requests combined into one: sworn protector x female; Amor x Psyche; Phantom of the Opera! Aemond x female. I took the liberty of creating a completely new story from this, having only elements of each of these requests.

Series & Characters Moodboard Lady Walford Moodboard Gothic & Horror Sensual Moodboard

Part 1 - The Man with the Black Mask | Part 2 - The Man with the Empty Heart | Part 3 - The Man with the Lost Soul | Part 5 - The Man with the Deep Scar | Part 6 - The Man with the One Eye | Part 7 - The Man with the Golden Gift | Part 8 - The Man in the Black Crown | Part 9 - The Man with the Bloody Sword | Part 10 - The Man in the Black Gloves | Part 11 - The Man in the Death Cloak | Part 12 - The Man with the Pearly Hair | Part 13 - The Man with the Fiery Gaze

Yesterday's trailer and the panel with ewan did something to me, so I think that dark aemond is the most appropriate thing I can give you today and that's it. It begins!

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Although she knew it was dangerous, after what had happened she forbade telling the King about what she had discovered. Some part of her hoped that Prince Aemond was alive − she was willing to help him regain the throne if only he would agree to spare her brother's life.

She spent the rest of the day alone in her chamber, covered in thick furs, thinking hard about what had happened.

About Vhagar.

He told her she knew his name, so he must have been someone she had seen on a daily basis before. Her discovery frightened him enough that he was willing to kill her − however, did he really want to do it out of fear of her father's wrath and the fact that he would lose his position, or was it something else?

She bit her lower lip at the thought that a part of her suspected she might be working with the Prince, to be his liaison, a devoted servant who by some miracle had managed to get into her father-king's closest guard.

He gave up the idea of murder because he knew that even if he had faked her suicide − the King would have blamed him for not watching over her and he would have lost everything, so he came up with another excuse, hiding himself behind sheer terror, hoping that she would believe him.

However, what purpose did what happened between them afterwards?

She pressed her lips together, feeling the heat in her body at the memory of that overwhelming feeling of fulfilment, that wonderful tickling and tension rising in her lower abdomen with each of his thrusts.

She placed her hand on her womb, swallowing hard at the thought that he had come inside her, that she could expect a child because of his seed.

She squeezed her eyelids shut, trying to breathe calmly, thinking only of how much better it would have been if he had let her die that night.

Her father had demanded, despite her objections, that she join the funeral feast in her mother's honour, so she walked reluctantly down to the great hall, her ghost following her at a greater distance than usual.

She thought that he himself was horrified by what had happened between them and the consequences that might follow.

She sat down at the table next to her brother, her father smiled at her and she reciprocated the gesture, thinking with amusement about how easy it was for her to pretend.

"There she is, my daughter. My treasure, my greatest support." He said with a pride from which her throat squeezed.

Only a few years ago she would have believed his words.

She felt him grasp her hand and she reciprocated the embrace, stroking his skin with her thumb.

"She's no longer a child and I've decided it's time to find her a suitable candidate for a husband." He said lightly, she felt her heart stop, the smile disappeared from her lips, on her face only pain mixed with disbelief.

They were at a feast dedicated to the funeral of her mother, his queen, and he was discussing her marriage.

"I ask that willing lords report to me on this matter." He said contentedly, letting go of her hand, and she closed her eyes, trying to calm herself.

She felt him standing behind her, felt his menacing, dark aura, and wondered what he was thinking.

If he imagined her lying in bed with another man, letting him sink deep between her thighs.

She left the feast quickly that evening, explaining to her father that she was tired, which he accepted with understanding. When she stepped into her chamber her servants helped her to pull off her mourning gown, once again offering her condolences, blowing out all the candles one by one.

She lay comfortably under the thick layers of furs, looking out the window at the cloudless sky full of stars, thinking about what had happened, unable to believe that by some miracle she was still alive.

As she began to slowly fall asleep she shuddered suddenly; she heard the door to her chamber open − Vhagar stepped inside without a word and closed it quietly behind him.

She watched with a rapidly pounding heart as, with an unhurried, lazy step, he approached her windows, untied the curtains and covered the only source of light with them, repeating this act until complete darkness fell around them.

She could see nothing but blackness.

She heard the sound of steel hinges opening, then the sound of a belt being unbuckled and the rustling of robes falling to the floor.

She lay still, her lips parted in horror and disbelief, felt once again this familiar, throbbing sensation between her thighs and embarrassing, sticky wetness.

She listened to his footsteps, the old wood creaking under his feet as he finally climbed onto her bed, she heard it bend under his weight.

She felt the touch of his big hand on her cheek and trembled, taking a deep breath, realising he wasn't wearing gloves, his warm breath wrapped around her face.

She tightened her hands on his bare, muscular shoulders as his fingers slipped into the ties of her nightgown and just ripped them open − she squealed when she heard the sound of the fabric being torn and a cool breeze surrounded her flesh.

"− I won't stop −" He said in a trembling, deep voice, so startlingly clear that shivers ran through her, her mouth parted wide in a helpless moan when she realised he wasn't wearing a mask.

She squealed loudly, her body arching all over, her hands clenched in his hair when she felt it, his cold, wet mouth clamped down on her warm breast, playing with her nipple, sucking and licking it, the spot between her thighs throbbing with pleasure and desire.

"− oh − oh, gods −" She mumbled out, never having felt anything like it in her life, his hands ripped her chemise off her and only then did she feel his whole naked body pressed against her skin − it was such an overpowering, shocking sensation that she was out of breath.

She wanted to enjoy every second of what was happening, his lips teasing her nipple with a loud click, clearly taking great pleasure from it, his hands tightened on her hips, forcing her to spread her thighs wider in front of him, her fingers stroking his hair − she thought with a trembling heart that they were unexpectedly soft and long.

"− we can't −" She choked out with an effort, wanting to retain the remnants of her sober thinking and decency.

He, however, only chuckled under his breath, amused, his hand from her hip slid down between her thighs − she whimpered loudly as his fingertips ran over her heat, collecting the moisture that had already managed to flow out of her, oversensitive and delicate.

"− should I leave you like this? − I'm not that cruel −" He hummed under his breath with a kind of excitement from which she quivered all over. She heard him raise himself higher on his elbow, his nose ran over her cheek − she gasped as she felt his fingers begin to apply more pressure, in sure, circular motions teasing the bud hidden between her folds.

All she could think about was that he wasn't wearing a mask, her hand rised involuntarily to touch his cheek.

"Tsk-tsk." He hissed as he caught her wrist − his tongue ran over her upper lip as his middle finger made its way inside her, searching with it for the spot he had rubbed earlier with his length. "Don't."

She mewled with delight and her body shook with a shiver of pleasure when he finally found it, her hips responded to his touch with desperate rocking, her mouth parted invitingly, letting his tongue deep into her throat, their lips joined in a sticky, loud, hot kiss.

She panted loudly along with him, stroking his hair as she felt him slide his finger out of her, impatient, his lips sucking and brushing her fleshy skin again and again as the tip of his manhood pushed against her swollen slit, thrusting forcefully inside her.

She clasped her hands on his bare back feeling the scars beneath them and cried quietly into his mouth, trying with difficulty to fit him inside her − he throbbed all over in arousal, her breasts pressed against his chest in the tight embrace of their bodies.

They both started to moan between loud, wet kisses as he began to root into her hot core − this time she was so wet that a few pushes of his hips were enough for him to begin slipping into her with ease.

"− mmm − that's it − so fucking good −" He panted into her mouth, gripping her hips tightly with his hands, stretching her tight walls with his length with every movement of his hips.

She moaned helplessly beneath him, stroking his hair, neck, shoulders and back, all sweaty from exertion, their lips finding each other in messy kisses over and over again.

"− fuck − do you really think I'm going to share what's mine? − that I would allow some mere, petty lord take you? − hm? −" He hissed out and she felt her walls clench tightly on him at his words in pleasure, heat surged through her lower abdomen from which her head completely spun, her helpless whimpering answered him.

"− p-please − I − ughmm −" She babbled, unable to focus on anything other than how he slammed his manhood into her, how wonderfully it teased the spot hidden in her walls.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, wanting to feel him closer, tightening her fingers on his back − she heard him groan low feeling it, speeding up, thrusting into her like crazy.

"− you want it, don't you? − my seed − deep, deep inside you − fuck, say it −" He breathed out between quick, deep, brutal thrusts − she felt him looking at her, felt his hot breath on her face, his forehead pressed against hers.

"− y-yes − please − fill me, fill me, fill me −" She mewled, both of them moaning loudly as a powerful orgasm shook her body, her core began to clench against him, forcing him to let go, his length twitching all over as his semen spilled deep inside her.

"− good gods, yes, take it −" He exhaled in delight, his thrusts sloppy and desperate, pushing his seed as deep into her as possible.

"− you're mine − I'm going to fill you every night − gods, you're going to bear me so many children −" He gasped in bliss, slowly coming down from his peak, the whimpers of pleasure coming out of her lips at his words − she wasn't sure she'd ever experienced anything like this in her life.

"− please −" She mumbled quietly like a helpless child, running her hands over his naked skin, wanting to remember that wonderful feeling − they were both hot and sweaty with pleasure, their bodies sticking to each other, her breasts pressed against his bare chest.

They both sighed when he finally fell on top of her, embracing her, their fingers sinking into each other's bodies, wanting to feel each other as much as possible, though she wasn't sure if two people could connect in any physical way more than they did now.

She could feel his loud, raspy breath against her cheek, the tip of his nose running over her hot skin, as if he wanted to check that it wasn't all just the result of his imagination.

"− stay − stay inside me −" She whispered, and he sighed quietly, as if relieved, with a gentle movement of his hips sliding his already half-soft manhood fully into her, hiding himself deep inside her.

Even though she knew it was wrong and irresponsible, that she couldn't trust him, that he was a traitor, she had never felt safer with anyone before, her eyelids closing involuntarily, having not experienced a peaceful sleep for so long.

"− don't open your eyes until I leave −" He whispered in her ear and she nodded, stroking his soft hair, her lungs filled with his scent, male sweat, steel, dust and fire.

His arms held her in a tight embrace through this night and many nights to come, making the days blend into one for her.

Each time he came to her he would cover the windows with curtains so that she could see nothing, and then sink his lips and tongue into the warmth between her thighs, groaning in delight as he felt how much of her moisture flowed out of her, only to end up rooting deep into her, as he promised, filling her with his seed.

He always rose before dawn − she could see through her closed eyelids that the first rays of light were sneaking into her chamber despite the curtains, that if she opened them she could see his face.

She feared, however, what she would see.

All she could think about all day was the night, what he brought to her along with the brutal, deep thrusts of his hips.

When he took her, he would say that he was her husband, that only he had the right to touch her, that she would only bear his children.

She was his.

He used to show this to her by standing closer than usual when she was eating or reading, by no longer leaving when she was taking a bath or changing, staring at her shamelessly, promising her servants in her presence that if they said anything to the King, he would end their lives.

"Vhagar doesn't mean it and he would never hurt you against my will. Am I right?" She asked coldly, frowning at him as the terrified girl tried to attach the long sleeves to her gown with trembling hands.

"Mmm."

When they were alone he would dare to approach her from behind as she sit, his leather-gloved hand running over her throat only to grasp her cheeks tightly and lift her face up, forcing her to look at him.

She stared into his eyes obscured by the dark material, at his mask, indifferent, cold, mocking, his thumb gently massaging her skin.

He didn't need to say anything − she could feel the tension between them quivering in the air, making her feel a throbbing inside her.

"Tonight I'm going to make use of those lips." He hummed softly, parting her lips with his finger − she closed her eyes, feeling that she couldn't last, her hand lifted swiftly the thick layers of her gown and slid deep between her thighs, sinking into her moist warmth.

He sighed quietly, looking down at it, clearly taking satisfaction from the fact that his mere presence made her unable to bear it, that she needed to relieve herself.

"− do you want it so badly? − me fucking those moist, sweet lips? − hm? −" He cooed, and she only whimpered, tilting her head back, resting it against his stomach, with a loud, embarrassing click rising and falling on her fingers, teasing her pearl at the same time, feeling her nipples grow hard with arousal.

"− please −" She mumbled, although she didn't know what she was asking for, they couldn't do it now − they had to wait until night fell, like every day.

"− you look wonderful like this −" He murmured, stroking her cheek with his thumb, his voice trembling slightly − she knew that he was already completely hard, that he was dying at the thought of being deep inside her at night. "− so devoted −"

She mewled at his words and felt him clamp his hand over her mouth, stifling her moans that escaped her throat as she reached her peak − she felt her walls clench hungrily on her fingers, wonderful waves of heat surged through her body again and again. She heard him gasp with satisfaction as he saw her body spilling in front of him on the chair.

"− mine −"

That night as they lay in complete darkness, both of them falling asleep, his nose snuggled into the hollow of her neck, his soft manhood deep inside her, she dared to ask him the question that had long been pressing against her tongue.

"Are you Prince Aemond's envoy?"

Her question hung in the air as if in the void; she felt his body freeze − for a moment he did not breathe, his fingers tightened on her soft skin.

Silence.

Long, cruel, cold.

"Yes."

She swallowed loudly, a shudder went through her at his words. He felt it and leaned in, placing a soft, warm kiss on her shoulder, his fingers squeezing her breast with affection.

"I want to help him. Can you convey this to him?" She asked in a whisper and felt him flinch all over, letting the air out of his lungs in disbelief − she felt him lift a little, his hot breath on her cheek.

"What do you mean?" He asked in a trembling, low, deep voice, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. She pressed her lips together feeling her heart pounding like mad.

"I will support him if he spares my little brother. If he agrees, I'll do whatever he wants." She said in pain, feeling a squeeze in her throat − his lips pressed quickly against her skin, greedily, violently, kissing and sucking her, his length throbbing hard inside her.

He began to move again, slowly rooting into her with a sigh of delight and relief, saying no more until they reached their peak together, panting loudly, their bodies heated and quivering with exertion.

"− be patient −" He whispered in her ear with such tenderness that she felt her heart squeeze, heat spilling over her lower abdomen. "− soon − I promise you, we'll be married soon −"

After what he said, she fell asleep filled with hope, with the fact that she wanted to believe his words, that he would really protect her, that perhaps a great bloodshed could be avoided this time.

That they would really get married.

She thought that now, that everything had come together in her mind, she could finally look at him − her future husband, the man who had taken her for himself, who brutally and indivisibly stormed into her heart.

That was why, even though she had sworn to him that she would not do so, hearing him get dressed in a hurry she lifted her eyelids.

She felt her heart freeze, her throat squeezed so tightly that she couldn't catch her breath.

He sensed something was wrong, subconsciously realised she had broken her promise and lifted his gaze to her, his hands clenched on the belt of his coat.

A large scar ran across his right cheek, in his eye socket not a blue iris, as it seemed to her when she looked at him through the thin black material, but a sapphire, glinting dangerously in the first rays of the sun, his lips clenched into a thin line, in his healthy eye pain, disappointment and anger.

"You shouldn't have done that."

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

[paulyenvol6]

Called to the Devil (Chapter 1)

Contains: no warnings

Wordcount: ~2.52k

Masterlist of this story

'Crash', it made. And then another.

Servants in the corridors widened their eyes in fear unknowing to how to handle this situation. At last they opened the door to the damned room and saw her sitting on the floor with the doll in her hands hitting the nightstand over and over again.

"My lady….", one of the brave servant boys said quickly and the girl hesitated and looked at him.

"What?", she breathed and he lowered his head.

"Forgive me for the disruption, my lady. I was simply wondering if you mayhaps… Could do this a little more quiet." She squinted her eyes and the boy uncertainly looked to his compaignon, another sevant.

"Forgive me, my lady. I – "

But he didn't finish his sentence because Elayne threw her hair back and stood up from the floor.

"No need.", she hissed with flashing eyes. With these words she threw the doll in front of the servants on the floor.

"Send this to my father. I think he will understand the message."

The two servants watched as the girl left her chambers and once she was gone one of them exhaled loudly.

"She is difficult." The other nodded. "She is a little beast. I wonder how the King will be able to tame her."

~~~~~~~~~~

Elayne Baratheon was a girl of 16 years with long brown hair that was as wild as her character. She was small, smaller than her younger sisters even but with green eyes so fierce that every person she looked at felt as though she was burning a hole through their bodies.

Her mouth always was either tense with anger or drawn to a smug smirk but right now fury was controlling her senses as she had stormed out of her chambers. She grew up at Storm's End with her parents Marcyn Baratheon and Aenyra Targaryen and 3 sisters and two brothers. The girl had always been difficult to handle, as she used to taunt and torture her younger and older siblings, left the city without her parents' permission and played tricks on her servants.

Mayhaps Lord Marcyn had hoped that as his daughter grew older she would also grow more mature but he couldn't have been more wrong. She was choatic, messy and completely out of control, to her parents' misfortune. Elayne did whatever she felt like doing and didn't let anybody tell her what to do so when she was 15 years old her father had decided to wed her in an attempt to finally get her under control.

He did love his daughter, but he feared that she would bring scandal over their house. And though Elayne was of ethereal beauty and youth and had enchanted every lord that entered Storm's End she scared off each and every of the suiters which had given her parents a headache. They tried everything, talking her into getting to know the lords, forcing her to spend time with the suiters but Elayne had remained stubborn and refused every one of them. And most of the time she wasn't even polite. She'd ask rude questions or ignore them and humiliate them in front of every one else until the last of them had run off.

That had left Lord Marcyn with no choice but to think of something else. And he had. He had decided that it was finally time for his daughter to learn to behave like a proper young lady so he had asked the King Viserys, who happened to be his wife's cousin to take Elayne as his ward. She could spend some time in the capital, be in a different environment and perhaps learn to act like a real lady with the presence of all the other highborn ladies in court.

His daughter had refused, disobeyed, screamed and cried but he had remained stubborn. Lord Marcyn had a gentle and kind heart and a special love for his children but this time he knew he had to be strict so within a fortnight Elayne had been sent on a boat heading to King's Landing. Her father also had hoped that her time in the capital may end with a betrothal and had even told Elayne that he would be fine with any match as long as he was highborn, so desperate was he because of his daughter's fiery temper.

~~~~~~~~~~

And now there she was. Pouty lips and red eyes from all her crying.

She wouldn't give in, of course not. Elayne was hurt and sad and most importantly angry. How could her father ship her off like this? How could he send her to a strange city while the rest of her family remained at Storm's End? Aimlessly she walked around the gardens of the Red Keep. She had arrived only two hours ago and already wanted to leave.

She looked around. Maybe there was a gate or something that she could climb over and then find her way to the port of King's Landing. She didn't have any money but she had jewelery…. She could ask a captain to travel with him and one of them would certainly head to Storm's End.

Elayne's thoughts were interrupted when she saw a person on the other end of the road that led through the garden. She watched him with small eyes; he was tall, probably was about 25 years old, had silver hair and now seemed to have spotted her as well. And seven hells he was beautiful.

Slowly he walked in her direction and Elayne crossed her arms in front of her chest. She thought that he looked handsome but feared that he might bore her like all the other Targaryens she had met, especially the king. He had greeted her in his chambers, welcomed her in the name of the whole family and the rest Elayne had forgotten.

The man in front of her now smirked and his eyes were flashing.

"You must be Elayne… Elayne Baratheon, my cousin's difficult child."

Before he had spoken Elayne had looked at him curiously because his beauty and aura had left her in awe but now her mouth tensed and she clenched her hands in fists.

"I'm not a child.", she hissed.

"Oh forgive me… my lady."

"And w-who are you?"

The man chuckled. "I can already see why they sent you here, girl. Where have you left your manners? If there ever were some."

Elayne couldn't help but smirk. She liked him. He was interesting at least. He returned the smile and crossed his arms.

"Daemon. Targaryen."

Elayne widened her eyes. The Rogue Prince, the King's fierce and violant brother. But she didn't want to show her surprise so she bit her lip.

"Daemon Targaryen. In the tales I have read about, you are described as taller."

Daemon's lips were drawn to a smirk and he chuckled inaudibly. "Good. Perhaps they fear me more then."

Elayne raised her eyebrows. "Fear you? In this place where one only has to raise his finger and there are a dozen servants doing whatever he desires?"

"They are your servants now as well."

Elayne's eyes were small and her opposite clearly enjoyed her reaction. "Do not pout, little girl. You're supposed to learn how a proper lady behaves here. And that's not the way."

His voice was oozing with sarcasm so instead of further sulking Elayne smirked and came a step closer.

"Then you should learn how to properly address a lady, my Prince." Daemon looked amused as he observed the young Baratheon.

"Forgive me. My lady. Though I don't think that title suits you a lot."

"What title does, then?", Elayne asked in a slightly seducing tone and the Rogue Prince answered equally playful:

"I'm yet to find that out."

~~~~~~~~~~

A little later Elayne was sat against the edge of her bed on the cold floor and stared into the darkness. The hour had grown late and she knew she should be abed to get rest but she hadn't been able to. She was hurt, sad and angry and deep down just missed her home.

Here, everything was always so warm and humid and Elayne missed her stormy home. In the keep the sun burned on her skin through the windows while in her chambers at Storm's End the rain and wind would lash against it and make the whole castle tremble. That were always her favorite nights. When there was this tension over Storm's End and the hair on her arms stood up. But here everything was boring and heavy.

Elayne wondered what her siblings were doing right now. The should be sleeping but she knew that at least Kayl wasn't. He was her youngest brother and loved to read. 'No', the girl thought. 'He is probably in his bed using a candle as a light to read about dragons all night.' Elayne scoffed when she thought about it. Mayhaps her father should've sent him rather than her because Kayl had an obsession with dragons and their riders, she thought with a grim smile.

Her stomach was aching when she thought about her family but that sadness was overthrown with fury really quickly. How could her father do this to her? His own daughter? Did he despise her so much that he would send her to a strange city despite her pleas and begging? Elayne could feel tears welling in her eyes but quickly dried them with the sleeve of her night gown. She wouldn't give them that. She wouldn't cry like a baby but simply show them that she wasn't the kind of person to accept her faith.

Fiercely, the girl stared into the darkness as though her enemy sat before her. If anyone did, they would have thought her to be a cat with her green flashing eyes. But she was the only one in the room and right now Elayne even thought to be the only one in the world, so lonely did she feel.

All throughout the afternoon she had watched every of her encounters with a disapproving look. After she had met Daemon Targaryen in the gardens she had spent some time in the gardens though she had felt terribly bored. Then it had been time for supper and she had met the rest of her relative from her mother's side. She had already forgotten most of their names and hadn't softened up for once while her cousins and uncles and aunts had introduced themselves.

Even when she had seen the king's brother again, she hadn't shown any sign of interest though she had found it hard not to stare at him. He simply had a magnetic aura and Elayne caught herself biting her lip when he had walked from the door to the big table in the middle of the room. She thought that he was beautiful and she didn't care about what anyone could say or think so though she felt a little intimidated by the man she glared at him with a playful look in her eyes and decided to test his waters during supper.

"My prince.", she spoke to him, who sat on her opposite and Daemon's looked mischiveous.

"I do hope you acclimatised, love.", he smirked and leaned back in his chair with crossed legs.

A few people around them glanced at each other questioningly as they didn't know how came they already knew each other. But Elayne didn't notice any of the looks and if she did she wouldn't care anyway.

"I did. Enough for me to find my likings and dislikings."

The prince's smirk intensed. He really liked this wild little girl who seemed so eager to cause troubles. It was time for some fun after the past boring months and she brought some new wind into the castle's walls.

"What is to your disliking?", he asked while taking a sip from his wine. He didn't care who listened to their conversation either and just had his eyes on Elayne.

"Oh, the bows.", she spoke and her opposite lifted his eyebrows.

"The bows?", he repeated and the girl nodded.

"Yes. The wood is not flexible enough and they're too big for my liking. I prefer the ones in my home."

"I learned that the fighting pit is not a place for a young lady.", Daemon said while watching her intensely.

"I do not care what place is for me.", she hissed and the prince chuckled. "I thought so."

Then he inhaled loudly. "I shall send word to the masters-at-arms then. You're supposed to feel homely here so we might as well offer you what you're used to in Storm's End."

Elayne watched Daemon with small eyes and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"I'm used to far prettier boys than what my eyes see here as well.", she whispered and Daemon chewed on his lower lip.

"Then perhaps we shall make some adjustments here as well. Though I think you're supposed to find a husband so I don't think it matters what he looks like. Only his house and his wealth should matter to you, little one."

Elayne's eyes were flashing as she raised her chin but didn't answer immediately. She just observed the prince and then scoffed.

"And you?" She lifted an eyebrow and smiled crookidly. "What about your lady wife?"

She knew that she had hit a raw nerve. Everyone, even the Targaryen relatives in Storm's End knew that Daemon had married the Lady Rhae Royce few years ago. But everyone also knew that the bond between the Rogue Prince and his lady wife couldn't be more cold and distanced, if, perhaps one could even spoke of a bond.

"My lady wife is none of your concern, girl.", he said through clenched teeth.

She was satisfied with herself and took a sip from her cup while keeping her gaze on the cold expression on his face.

"It truly is not.", she then said. "And yet I can't help but wonder who keeps your bed warm at night with the lady Rhea miles away from the capital."

She looked at him with sweet big eyes but of course Daemon could look right through the girl's innocent look. Aenys, Elayne's young cousin and clearly the only one who had listened to their conversation as of late watched her anxiously because he couldn't really understand what it was about but was old enough to know that it wasn't a proper conversation for supper.

Daemon looked far from being angry or ashamed though and a playful smirked appeared on his lips.

"That should be none of your concern either.", he whispered. "But let me tell you that this is the city of possibilities and prospects, little one. Even for whores. And King's Landing offers opportunities to the finest in the seven kingdoms."

Daemon didn't even know why he played this game with her. Most of the times he was bored by the themes discussed during supper or what happened during councils. But something about that brunette sassy girl from Storm's End excited him and made him want to tease her the same way she clearly wanted to tease him.

So he enjoyed playing along.

[pomefioredove]

Noble Bell ; Book One, Part II ; The King of Truands

what if you were sent to Noble Bell College instead?

type of post: series characters: rollo, original characters (pierrot, bou, phoenix, clo!) additional info: reader is gender neutral, this is mostly my own vision, influenced by Disney's Hunchback, the 1939 movie, and the original novel word count: 3.4k

prologue | the king of truands, 1 | the king of truands, 2 |

Chapter Nine

The stairs are narrow and slippery, wet with what you can only hope is rainwater. The further you go, the less sure you are of that. 

You and Hugo, who has been eerily quiet so far, descend into a large, tall chamber, much wider than the halls you’d been wandering in earlier. The floor is hidden under a shallow covering of grimy water, and the walls are…

“What were you saying about cadavers, earlier?”

Thousands of eyeless sockets watch the two of you descend into the earth, not unlike themselves. If not for the delicate arches of the stonework, you would have thought the entire passage was made of bone. 

“Is this the Miracle Court?” you ask, looking from side to side as a thousand toothy grins smile back. 

Hugo bleats and shakes the murky water off his coat. “I’d say it’s more like the court of ankle-deep sewage,”

“Cheerful place,” you murmur. 

“I remember hearing about the ancient tunnels under the city, but…” Hugo pauses, side-eyeing an armor-clad skeleton, crumpled in a dark corner. 

“...This isn’t what I was picturing.”

Condensation on the arched ceiling drips into the ankle-deep waters below, conducting an orchestra of plops. You can’t help but feel grateful for the noise. 

You can’t imagine what it would be like if the only sound were your footsteps. 

“We must be under the river,” you say, looking overhead. “It’s so…”

“Disgusting?”

“I was going to say damp, but yes,” 

You can feel the stone floor dipping into the earth below your feet, and you give Hugo an anxious glance. You’re going deeper. 

Each slosh, each wet footstep, every drip of river water from the ceiling echoes off the stone walls, making a melody out of the tedious journey towards the center of the earth, or Hell, you’re still not quite sure yet. 

And, even with Hugo, even with the river, the water, the thousands of smiles surrounding you, this is, perhaps, the first time since you'd arrived that you felt truly alone. 

It’s scary how comforting the feeling is. 

In the absence of the looming dread that had been following you since this morning, you could have a moment to breathe, and to think. How long this day had felt…

Something, then, stops you in your tracks. 

Hugo takes a few more steps before turning. “Whatsit?”

Your eyes widen. “There’s…”

There’s a little sun, a breath of warmth, a faint, teasing orange glow, like the light at dawn, like the flames of a candle, just behind you and to your left. You had caught it as you passed it by, and, within that millisecond, it consumed your entire being. 

Hugo seems to notice it, too. Or maybe not. “...You think there’s people down there?”

You don't respond. It calls to you. It cuts through the sound of water, breathing, and Hugo’s voice, parting it like the sea, and beckoning you into its depths. The longer you stare, the warmer it becomes, its edges red, its light racing to you like fingers, and-

The illusion of loneliness is shattered into pieces, the sound of laughter filling the cracks. You and Hugo share a careful look, and then move towards the cheers, leaving the glow behind as you drag your feet through the murky water. 

Then, there's light. 

The floor rises from under your feet, the passage narrows, the water becomes lower and lower until you’re walking on dry stone, the smell of mildew becomes bread and fire, and, suddenly, there’s an opening in the wall, from which the sounds and smells and yellow light are coming. 

“We have good noose tonight, everybody!”

Your steps slow, and you hold a finger to your lips, shushing Hugo. 

Peering over the high threshold of the carved door, it’s as if you’re looking into an entirely different place. 

Over the threshold, the catacombs expand into a wide, vaulted hall, lined with fine furniture, cushions, pillows, tapestries and blankets of every color and pattern hanging from the walls and ceilings, garlands of flowers and vine, candles suspended in air and in alcoves in the walls showering the chamber in warm, inviting light. 

Unlike the mossy and mildewed stone of the passage, the walls, floor, and ceilings are impeccably well-kept and clean. The smell of something baking is enough for you to imagine more rooms, more passages, beyond. 

What concerns you is not the state of the hall, though, nor is it the dozen-or-so students, dressed in a variety of colors, from a variety of backgrounds, each speaking their own language…

On the contrary, it is the drably-dressed rather boring boy on a gallows at one end of the hall. He’s sickly pale, and seems to be in a heated argument with a man in an executioner’s outfit beside him. 

“Pierrot,” you whisper to Hugo. He coughs. 

“Again!” Pierrot says, eyes wide. “You know me! I am the author, Pierrot Gregoire!”

The boy beside him adjusts his black cap, checks himself in the reflection of a guillotine blade beside them, and then hums. 

“Hmhmhm… No, doesn’t ring a bell,”

“Clodio! We have drama club together! I saw you less than two hours ago!”

He rolls his eyes. “That’s what they all say,”

The crowd that had gathered beneath the gallows laughs and claps along. You and Hugo share a glance, and when you look back, the boy- Clodio- is dressed in a long robe, not unlike the Noble Bell uniform, is wearing a wide-brimmed hat, and holding a puppet…

You narrow your eyes. “How did he-” 

“Now that we have seen all the evidence- wait, I object!” says the puppet, “Overruled! But I object! Quiet!”

Hugo makes a face, and you share the look. When you look back, Clodio is dressed as an executioner… again. 

“Ahem. Now that we’ve seen all the evidence, we find you completely and utterly normal… which is the worst crime of all! Thou shalt be hanged!”

“Wait!” 

You gasp, stumbling out of the opening in the wall and into the warm, well-lit chamber. Pierrot sighs in relief, “There you are-”

Clodio shushes him, and turns to you. “Ah… how timely! We were wondering when you would come!”

You climb the ladder to the gallows, noting the good condition of it, and hurry to Pierrot’s side. 

“Your friend?” Clodio asks, grinning and leaning against the lever that would have sent Pierrot to his… is that plastic?

Pierrot’s eyes turn to you. 

“...Yes,” you finally say, throwing the noose off of him. He sighs, and his knees give out. 

“How unfortunate…” Clodio says, rubbing his chin. “But, I dare say, that was my best performance yet!”

The little group of bystanders hoots and hollers, and he gives a bow. When he stands upright, his outfit has, again, changed entirely. Now, he’s dressed in a dark blue, pinstripe shirt, with a lavender vest and a large, almost obnoxiously so, golden-hued bowtie. He snaps a pair of white gloves over his hands, and bows to you. 

“Welcome to our court. You are permitted, with the highest honor, to call me by the name of Clo, Clodio Lefou, or, should it agree with you, the King of Truands. Now, make yourself comfortable- have you eaten yet?”

You give him an odd look. “Um…”

Clo stands. His bowtie is now a white straight tie. Matching bows and magenta feathers in his hair, which is dark, and pulled into a short, messy ponytail, and a single golden earring have also accented his person. 

“No, of course not… Well, let’s eat. Can’t have you going hungry, now, can I? What sort of leader would I be, hm? Come along- you can bring your friend, too,” 

You glance towards Pierrot, who’s just now getting off the floor. A single bleat, muffled by the tapestries on the stone, comes from behind, and Hugo leaps over the opening and into the hall. 

“Ah, and your goat,” Clo says. “Don’t worry, I get along well with kids. Pets, too.”

Hugo nips at him. “Who’re you calling a pet?”

“Ah, my deepest apologies. Now, come along,”

---

You follow the self-proclaimed “King of Truands” into another hall of the Miracle Court, a smaller room with a single, long, scuffed table going down the belly of it. On it- bread, butter, meats and cheeses of every kind, grapes and apples…

The group of students sits around it, passing plates and chatting amongst themselves. Pierrot’s hands are still shaking as he accepts a platter of cured meats. 

“I’m afraid you caught us in the middle of a rehearsal,” Clo says, piling your plate with bread and cheese before you can refuse. 

“Awfully realistic…” Pierrot murmurs, wrapping his hand around his neck with a sickened expression.

“Thank you!”

You glance between the two. 

“...What is this place…?”

Clo spreads a thin layer of goat cheese over a slice of bread for you, and sets it on your plate.

“Ah, I suppose you wouldn’t know the story. You’re in our Miracle Court… well… something of it. Long ago, during the time of the Righteous Judge, there was a safe haven for all outcasts under the streets of Fleur City, a home where they could seek sanctuary, community…

…Its original place remains somewhat of a mystery. What you see is only an abandoned waterway under Noble Bell College. What we have made it…”

As he speaks, you’re drawn to the people sitting around the table. They’re all quite different, from their appearances to their accents to their mannerisms. Some boys, some girls, some are older, some younger, some you’re not even sure are students at all…

“Consider us a… fourth dorm, if you will,” Clo says. 

“Outcasted, rejected, by the upstanding man, the scholar of Noble Bell-” he says, puffing out his chest for emphasis, his outfit changing back to the uniform you’d become so accustomed to, and then back to his suit. 

“-We’ve become a family of our own.”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Pierrot says, narrowing his eyes. “-I’m just as much of an outcast as any of you! I also lost my scholarship! I was also thrown from my dorm! I’ve been living in the old cemetery all year, and half of last!”

Clo wags his finger. “Nonsense. Just this morning, as I was method acting, I saw you in the dining hall, your plate stacked to the roof!”

Pierrot’s mouth gapes, and then he shuts it. 

You lean into the conversation, separating the two. “...That may have been my fault. I let him have my breakfast,”

“Ahh… now, that would make sense. I didn’t see you eat a thing,” Clo hums. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“I did say so!”

Now, another thought is occurring to you, one that sends a shiver of hope up your spine. You can't help but- “It was you who was following me all day,” 

Both Hugo and Pierrot give you a questioning look, but you don't have the mind to answer them now. Clo hums. 

“...I suppose I was. I had to be sure of you, of course- an invitation to our little court of miracles is special,”

It was only him.

You let go of yourself, exhaling, losing your tension, sedated with a powerful dose of relief. Of course, of course. You had worried yourself about nothing. 

The uneasy feeling lingers, though. You tell yourself it's only stress.

“...I appreciate it. But if anyone deserves a spot in your court, it’s Pierrot. He’s rather unlucky,”

Pierrot hangs his head, as if purposefully looking for sympathy. “It’s true…”

Clo glances between the pathetic sight, and yourself, his eyes narrowing.

“Don’t excuse yourself so soon. Scholarship or not, you are an outcast. You may not think so yet, but Noble Bell has a way of reminding you when you don’t belong…”

Pierrot glares at him, and then turns to you, his voice softening. “Don’t listen to him. He’s an actor,”

“Says the poet!”

“AND PROUD OF IT!”

Clo bursts into a fit of giggles, clearly enjoying the company. Someone passes him a bottle and he pours more grape juice into your glass. 

“If you would like to join my court, you ought to be nicer to me. I am the king, after all,”

You tilt your head. “What does that mean? The King of Truands?”

“Well,” he says, rubbing his gloved hands together. “It is my part. That is to say, my role, my muse, my character! I wrote the part myself, too-”

Pierrot rolls his eyes. 

“-Based on the legendary king of beggars himself, who ruled the Court of Miracles, just as the Righteous Judge watched over The City, the Knight of the Sun protected The Ville, and The Curious Scholar led L'Universite…”

You glance towards Hugo, sitting under the table at your feet, and he mouths "explain later."

“Yes, yes, we’ve all heard the story,” Pierrot grumbles, crossing his arms and pouting like a child. 

“You never play any of my characters with such enthusiasm.”

“Your heroes are lukewarm and your villains are predictable- and I do bore of playing villains…” Clo sighs. 

“...But, putting aside our artistic differences, I see it only right to invite you to join our dorm, in the spirit of the King himself. And you-” he smiles at you. “...Should you ever need it, our doors remain open to you.”

Pierrot sighs, but accepts the offer with a little nod. You follow suit.

“It beats having to sleep in a grave,” Hugo grumbles. “Where’d you get all this stuff, anyway?”

“Made, donated, shared…” Clo shrugs. “The food comes from the flour mill outside of town- the miller is a sympathetic man.”

“Most ‘a the people in this city are,” the goat says. “I cut it good here. All I have to do is walk around a market looking all cute and sad until someone feels bad and tosses me their scraps.”

“Funny, I do the same thing,” Pierrot says through a mouthful. 

Clo laughs, and even you smile. 

You know you can’t stay here.

You’ll just end up attracting more attention than you already have, and by the looks of this room- the rejected would-be-students, the eccentric theatre actor, the rebellious writer- standing out at Noble Bell is anything but good. 

You’ll go back to the bell tower. You have to. 

Before that…

“Oh, right,” you say, taking something out of your pocket and holding it up to the light. “This was on the back of the letter you sent. But I have no idea what it means.”

Clo blinks at the sparkly pendant, and then grins. 

“It’s a popular emblem of Fleur City. Consider it a symbol of our acceptance,” he says. 

“But what does it mean?”

He shrugs. “No one truly knows. Nothing, probably- but there is a saying that goes along with it, though. When you wear this woven band, you hold the city in your hand. Fun, no?”

An inexplicable sense of disappointment makes itself a home in you, and you hold the pendant closer to yourself, cradling it in your palm. 

The sounds of the conversation around you become distant. You run your fingers over the twine, the many colors of it, the small cross in the middle, and the smaller stone at its heart. Strange...

Against all reason, it’s caught your interest between its woven bands, and you can’t help but feel that it means something. 

“It’s getting late,” you say, excusing yourself from the table, and the conversation, which had turned to Pierrot and Clo bickering about the realism of the prop gallows.  

Pierrot looks up. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay? At least for the night- it’s much cleaner here than it is in the bell tower,”

You shake your head, and Clo abruptly jumps from the seat beside you, pointing a finger directly at Pierrot. 

“Speaking of! Let’s hose him down- he smells!”

The students cheer, chanting "he smells! he smells!", and Pierrot goes pale as his chair is lifted and he’s carried off. You wave goodbye, and turn to leave from the way you came. 

Chapter Ten

Alone. 

Without Hugo, the passage back to the school feels thrice as dark, and much tighter. Besides the way from which you came, every door you pass, every opening, even the windows in the walls are guarded by thick iron bars. Yet, still, you can’t help but wonder what lies beyond…

At least it makes finding your way back easy enough. 

Noble Bell has a way of telling you that you don’t belong…

Clo’s words dance around your thoughts, haunting you, leading you deeper into the abyssal pits. 

The water is up to your knees now. The river must rise and fall like the tide… perhaps it’s raining. The thought offers little comfort. 

You turn a corner, and then hesitate. To your right, now, is the thin passage where the orange glow had come from. The sun, the flame, the dawn. How you wished you could have cupped it in your hands…

You peer through the wrought-iron bars of the opening. 

No light. No glow. The water is thinner here, though no less dark. There’s only a thin, black stem reaching out of the depths, though it appears as if its flower had been torn off. 

By what, you wonder.

it doesn't matter. The glow is gone. You are alone again. 

Then...

“Hey! What are you doing down here?” 

Again, the door to your prison of mind is thrown open, and you whirl around to see…

“You again?” you ask, taking a step back through the inky water. How strange. You didn’t even feel him coming. 

Phoenix puts his hands on his hips. “I thought I’d told you. It’s unsafe down here. You’re really not supposed to be…”

“Did you follow me?” 

He hesitates, his brow turning up, the stern expression on his face becoming confused. “I was going to ask if you had followed me. I’m on student council business,”

“Under the school,” you say. “...Again?”

“I was given orders. No one is to be in the waterways unattended,”

Your rational mind, the one that had, unfortunately, come with you when you woke up in this strange place, wants you to explain. Your gut resists. 

Some things are just better off as secrets, after all. 

“I got… lost again,”

For a moment, it seems as if Phoenix has something stuck in his throat. Then, he coughs, then, he laughs. 

“Oh, right. You’re pretty ditzy, aren’t you? Here, let me take you back,”

You grimace. You don’t appreciate his choice of words, but… he bought the excuse. Perhaps you’d picked up a thing or two about acting from Clodio Lefou. 

You still have much to learn.

Chapter Eleven

Phoenix blazes ahead, cutting a path through the sewer with the confidence of a man much wiser than him. 

You keep to yourself. It’s a long walk back to the surface, and you’re not in the mood to chat. You’re tired, wet, smell of sewage, and have been going in circles about what turned out to be a curious theater kid all day. 

Silly, silly… 

You scold yourself. This place will drive you mad if you’re not careful…

You’ve had enough of secrets and mysteries for a lifetime, and it’s only been a day. 

Phoenix is some ways ahead of you, talking to himself about some silly thing or another, answering his own echo. As if you’re not even there. 

People here seldom look at you. 

And yet, you can’t help but-

...

Your feet suddenly refuse to move. 

You stop in place, letting Phoenix’s voice get further and further from you, until you can’t hear him at all. Just the drip, drip, drip of the catacombs, the sound of your heart...

And the footsteps behind you. 

You want to believe it’s Clo, it's someone from the court, the one you’d left behind some time ago, but you know it isn’t. You always knew it wasn't.

It’s coming from one of the iron-guarded gates. You can feel eyes on your back. Behind you, to your left. 

It breathes. 

This time, you can’t even shout. 

“Hey,” the light returns to you, Phoenix and his flashlight.

“You okay?”

His tone is soft. Gentle, almost, which is strange for him, and must mean you look as scared as you feel. 

He comes over to you, loops your arm around his, and continues walking you out of the catacomb, practically dragging you behind him. The feeling of being watched, the lingering, sticky, suffocating fear, vanishes behind you. 

But you know it’ll be back. 

Phoenix brings you to the surface, lifting you from perdition with a strength you couldn’t have guessed from his height and soft features. 

“Alllmost there,” he keeps saying that, quietly, all the way up to the bell tower, as if reassuring you.

It works… a little. 

He says good night, and leaves you there.

There are very few things you understand about this world, its people, its history,

Its magic. 

But as the door to the bell tower closes, trapping you inside, just as much a prisoner as you were before, alone but safe, you understand this:

There is a monster inside Noble Bell College. 

And only you know it's there.

[kingaegond]

King Aegon II x Demon! Reader (If I had a heart, I could love you)

Warnings: +18, Innacurate Hotd (after Rook's Rest), smut (in next chapters), murder, blood, etc

Part 1: If I had a heart, I could love you

He was destroyed, in agony, locked away in the cold dark corners of Dragonstone. He couldn't believe it himself, but he missed the Keep and the warm sunny days in King's Landing.

He was about to sleep when Maester Orwyle walked into his chambers, a drink on his hand.

-I've told you... I won't drink it anymore... - Aegon hissed.

-Your grace, you might want to take it...

As Aegon turned his back, Maester Orwyle proceed to tell him the events of the day: After the battle of the God's eye, Aemond had died along with Vhagar, but this wasn't the worst of it. Although Caraxes was dead, Daemon had survived... It was only a matter of time before he would claim another dragon and then, the Iron Throne, along with Rhaenyra.

Maester Orwyle stopped.

Aegon remained giving his back to the maester, focused on not letting his tears spill. His brother was dead...

-Your grace...

-What is it? Speak!

-The queen is dead. She threw herself from the window...

The maester continued speaking but Aegon only heard a high pitched sound.

-Your grace...

-Leave... -Aegon mumbled- Leave! Now! Please...

The maester left the tray on Aegon's bed and proceded to leave his chambers.

As soon as he heard the door, Aegon crumbled, the tears spilled from his eyes uncontrolably. He loved his sister-wife, more like a sister than like a wife, but he loved her nevertheless. He threw the tray to the foor and started throwing around everything he could get his hands on. He wasn't as strong or agile as he used to be, but that wouldn't stop him... There was only one thing keeping him alive... Revenge.

Before he knew it, he found himself on his knees, praying, praying to whatever would hear him... and he felt sleep on the cold floor, tears behind his eyes...

-

She was batting her onyx black wings, flying through the night sky when she heard him. She wondered why she would be hearing prayers until she heard the word: Revenge. And then, she payed attention to the voice and follow it.

She stopped at a window. There was a man lying on the floor. His heart beating faintly. Without her unnatural habilities, she would think he was a corpse. She walked into the room, her black wings creating a shadow behind her. She went closer to the man and curiosity got the best of her: She touched his head and went into his thoughts... all the loss...all the pain... She flinched... if she were still an angel, she would cry... But in her current form, only one thought remained: Revenge.

-

Aegon felt he intrusion, some presence in his thoughts, making him re-live his pain, it was torture.

-Stop! Stop! Please!- He woke up, tears still running down his cheeks.

She was confused, usually this process was painless, but not for him.

He stared into her black eyes, a contrast to her pale skin. Her white dress clinging to her with ash black hair falling just above her chest. As he focused his eyes, he saw the big onyx black wings on her back and flinched away.

-What are you?... Are you dead herself? Will you take me? -He asked.

-I'm not... I heard your prayer...- She answered. Her voiced sweet to his ears.

-Are you an angel?- He asked. His hand moving slowly closer to her wings but then backing away.

-Quite the opposite- She said looking at her wings and his hand.- I've heard your prayer and I'll answer... I'll give you what you want...

-Can you bring them back?... My son Jahaerys, Helaena, Aemond, Sunfyre...

She saw the glimmer of hope in his eyes and almost felt a pang of pain.

-No, I can not bring the dead back to life. But I can give you what you've prayed for... Revenge...

He didn't doubt for a second.

-Yes - He answered.

As soon as she heard his word, she fell softly onto her knees and lowered herself to his eyeline, her black wings enveloping them both. She caressed his jaw between her hands, softly tracing his scars and kissed his lips. As soon as her lips brushed his, the deal was made. His soul was hers to take. If i had a heart, i could love you. She thought.

He felt the softness of her hands and her lips, unlike anything he ever had had before. And then, electricity travelling through him, he watched as his hand no longer had scars, his body as he was before Rook's Rest.

He looked at her.

-It just the begining of what I can do- She murmured- We will do so much more.

She would bring him the heads of Daemon and Rhaenyra, and watch him bathe in their blood.

[a-killer-obsession]

Whoops, you got hit by a bus, and now you're in the world of One Piece. But not everything is quite as you remember it...

General Tags: afab reader, she/her reader pronouns, isekai, monsterfucker reader, vampire!kid, werewolf!killer, wyrm!heat, minotaur!wire, everyone has a human form, smut heavy, unhealthy relationships, dubious consent, serious violence, spoilers for Wano arc, starts pre-timeskip. There will be a lot of more intense kinks, please check AO3 for all current tags.

Chapter 4 - Toy Mouse

Heat is being greedy, so Kid puts him in his place.

WC: 3.6k

Masterlist | AO3 | Chapter 1

At first things seemed fine and normal with Heat. He was clingy, definitely, but at first you just chalked it up to him being a little touch starved. It wasn't until he refused to leave when you needed to use the bathroom that you realised something might be off, not even turning away to give you privacy. It was difficult to do your business like that, but something about the dark look in his eyes when he watched you made you aroused and more willing to do what he wanted. He kept you by his side 24/7, with no chance of going off on your own even at night, when he kept his tail coiled around you like a boa constrictor with its prey. He never hurt you, but the lack of privacy was starting to get grading, not to mention your cunt hurt from how many times he'd mounted you. Sometimes you woke up with him already inside you, which you didn't mind so much, except for the fact you were exhausted and he was interrupting your sleep constantly. If you tried to scold him, he'd just give you sad little puppy eyes, and you couldn't help but give in. By day three it seemed like all you did was eat, sleep and fuck. He barely left the bed or let you leave, instead having someone bring meals to the bedroom so he could keep you to himself, and you were beginning to feel like you had no agency in your own life at all. As much as you enjoyed being used like a personal fleshlight, some fresh air would've been nice.

On day four of Heat keeping you captive, the others decided they'd had enough. Heat was slacking off on his chores to play with you, and Kid was sick of his insubordination. He had warned Heat right from the start what would happen if he acted too possessive, knowing full well it was in the wyrm's nature to act like this, and with Sabaody on the horizon he decided to do something about it. Both you and Heat were summoned to Kid's room, where he had his own private dining room he sometimes used for meetings.

As it turned out, the stairs in the stern castle led to the captain's quarters, in other words: Kid's floor. Only the commanders and whoever was responsible for cleaning his chambers were allowed up those stairs unless invited, so you felt highly intimated as Heat led you up. At the top of the stairs was a short hall with two doors, the first of which, Heat explained, went to Kid's workshop, and the other to his living quarters.

The main part of Kid's quarters was made up of two rooms, separated by a large archway. The first chamber held the dining room and bar, a similar setup to the commander's table on the stage downstairs in the galley, while the second chamber held his bedroom. Another door led through from the bedroom, you would learn later that these led through to a walk-in closet, and beyond it a bathroom which also connected to the workshop, making one large loop that took up the entire expanse of this floor.

Kid's main chambers were decorated as you had expected in reds and blacks, with deep scarlet wallpapers decorated with an embossed baroque pattern that was glossier than the base, but the same colour, giving a subtle texture to the walls where the light caught it. The lower third of the walls were shiplapped with a deep ebony wood, almost black, the doors, framing and much of the furniture being made of a matching wood. The floors were a slightly brighter wood, with large black and red ornate rugs with purple accents laid out under the dining set and bed. The bed itself was a gothic styled canopy bed, with an ornate headboard and deep red sheets, set with red velvet blankets and a red fur much like his coat draped over the end. At the end of the bed was a long purple ottoman, and the room also held several dressers that matched the bed; side tables, a purple velvet loveseat and matching armchair, a small glass topped coffee table in front of the sofa, and wrought-iron faux candelabra lighting fixtures scattered around the walls of each chamber. Each chamber also had a grand matching chandelier in the centre of the room, both sections lit in warm orange light. The dining section also held two china cabinets with glass panelled doors, one one either side of the room. The first held a multitude of expensive looking liquors and crystal glasses to enjoy them with, while the other seemed like a collection of antique weapons, a variety of well kept guns and knives of all kinds.

Kid, Killer and Wire already sat at the dining table as you and Heat entered, Kid in a throne-like seat at the end of the table that was taller and more ornate than the other chairs. Heat pulled you into his lap as he sat, wrapping his arms around you protectively. The others rolled their eyes at the overly possessive action.

“Come now,” Kid tutted, “come warm my lap instead, mouse.” He pushed his seat a little away from the table, patting his knee to invite you over. You made to move to him, wanting to be obedient, but Heat made a growl behind you and held you tighter. “Heat, what did I say? Do I need to take your toy away from you permanently? Prove to me this wasn't a mistake to let you take responsibility of her”

Heat grumbled but let you go, knowing that if he didn't give in then Kid would have to send you back down to the brig, and he didn't want to give up having you warm his bed. You spared Heat an apologetic look as you walked to the head of the table, and Kid quickly pulled you into his wide lap, the large, jewel encrusted belt buckle he wore digging into you as you tried to get comfortable. His hand rested on your inner thigh as he held you still, the other against your waist to pin your back to his chest. You could feel the vibrations in his chest from his deep voice whenever he spoke, while Heat watched on with a deep, unhappy scowl on his face. Kid's hand was so high on your thigh that he could swipe his thumb over your slit, making you bite your lip and squirm as he put pressure against your clothed cunt.

“Wipe that fucking look from your face, snake, she offered herself to everyone, quit being selfish,” Kid barked at him.

“Don't call him a snake,” you said quietly, a slight quiver to your voice, “that's not nice. He's a dragon, not a snake”

“Damn, you showed her your full form already?” Kid laughed, “no wonder she fuckin’ stinks of you. I'll just have to put my own scent on her,” he jeered, running his sharp canines over the pulse point of your neck, making you shiver. Heat made a growl, black smoke leaking from his mouth, and Kid openly laughed at him, running his hand further up your thigh to cup your cunt while his other hand grabbed a tit, making you let out a surprised squeak. “Sounds like I'm gonna have to put your boyfriend in his place, mouse. Be a doll and bend over the table for me.”

You moved to do as he asked, apparently not moving fast enough for his liking as he suddenly manhandled you, pushing your front down against the table and yanking down your borrowed sweatpants and oversized briefs. You couldn't help but let out a whine as he ran two fingers between your folds before bullying them inside you, finding you already wet from just his earlier teasing. “Little mouse is already soaked, you want this don't you, whore? Want me to use your greedy cunt? It's sucking my fingers in.”

“Y-yes captain,” you whined, blushing heavily and trying to ignore the other three men in the room who were watching you discerningly, most of all Heat who was growing angry as Kid played with his toy. There was wet squelching and the metallic jingling of gold bracelets as Kid finger fucked you, showing no mercy as he scissored his fingers to stretch you out as quickly as possible, adding a third thick finger and curling them down to press against your g-spot. “Ahh- hnng- Kid-” you moaned, writhing against the table, one of his hands still pressed to your back to keep you from getting up. He forcibly ripped an orgasm from you, not letting up even a little as he felt you clamp down around his fingers, and you heard the soft pattering of fluid hitting the rug as he made you squirt.

“Fuck, now there's a good whore,” Kid praised, pulling his fingers from you and licking them clean, savouring your sweet taste. If he had more time he'd eat you out, but this wasn't about making you feel good, this was about putting Heat in his place. “You didn't say she was a squirter, Heat. Sweet little mouse, making a mess on my rug. I'm gonna make a fucking mess of that pussy. See who you dream of then.”

You heard the unbuckling of his belt behind you, his blue sash thrown to the floor beside you as he yanked down his pants. You turned enough to see his erection, gasping at how impossibly thick he was, somehow even thicker than the base of Heat's dragon form cocks, though not as long. The man was built like a fucking soup can. Kid gave Heat a shit eating grin as he pushed your head to face forward again, lining himself up and pushing his cock into you far too fast, knocking the air from your lungs and making you sting from the stretch. If it wasn't for how regularly Heat had been mounting you, the stretch would have no doubt made you scream in pain, but thankfully Heat had been giving you no time for your cunt to recover fully.

“Fuck, so tight,” Kid growled, grabbing your hips hard enough to bruise and immediately starting a brutal pace, his heavy balls slapping against your thighs with every snap of his hips. He couldn't care less if you came again, his only goal was to cover you in cum so Heat would smell him on you for days and remember you didn't belong to only him. He was enjoying your tight cunt though nonetheless, seriously considering keeping you around for a while just to fuck even if you turned out to be full of shit.

You squirmed and moaned at Kid's rough treatment, moving too much for his liking. He made a frustrated growl and lifted a leg to the table, pressing his boot against your head, threatening to crush it. “Stop fucking squirming bitch,” he barked, “take what I fucking give you.”

You could smell the dirt and dried sea salt on the sole of his boot, as well as the polish he used to shine the leather (or more likely, that another crewmate used). You couldn't help the string of moans that left you at the degrading treatment, your nails digging into the wooden table top as your clothed tits slid back and forth against it. You made the mistake of looking ahead, making eye contact with Wire, who looked highly amused, his eyes dark and hungry as he twirled his trident on its base. You whined at his expression, he was watching you like you were nothing more than a plaything, practically seeing the cogs in his head turning as he considered all the things he would do to you when he got his turn. Killer's face was of course unreadable, but he watched you with crossed arms, sitting in a relaxed looking slouch with his mask pointed right at you. You expected Heat to look upset, but instead his eyes were wide and blown out with lust, finding surprisingly that he actually enjoyed watching Kid fuck you. He could get used to this, he thought. Possessiveness still prickled in the back of his mind, already planning on coating you in cum the second he got a chance, maybe he'd even piss on you for good measure, but for now he was enjoying watching Kid use you, and seeing the way your eyes rolled back at his merciless pounding.

“Oi, you two,” Kid pointed at Killer and Wire, “jerk yourselves off, we're gonna paint this bitch with our cum so Heat knows to share in future.”

The two of them didn't hesitate for a moment, already rock hard from watching as they each unfastened their pants and pulled out their cocks. You couldn't see how big they were from this angle, but just knowing they were fucking themselves while they watched you was enough to make your legs shake, clamping down hard around Kid's cock and near screaming as you came. “Oh you like that huh? You like seeing them jerk off while they watch me fuck you?” Kid laughed, “you were born to be a whore. That's the real reason you ended up on this ship, a perfect little whore, made just for us.”

Heat made a move to touch himself, but Kid growled and snapped a finger at him. “Not you, selfish cunt, you're just gonna sit there and watch. You've had enough turns already.”

Heat whined, putting his hands on the table, his fingers twitching and shifting nervously as he struggled to control his urges, black smoke puffing out of his nose with every strained breath. Kid removed his boot from your head and pulled his cock out of you, flipping you onto your back unceremoniously before he grabbed your thighs and pulled your ass to the edge of the table, reshealthing himself with a grunt. He grabbed your shirt and tore it open easily, exposing your breasts which bounced with every thrust. He tweaked and pinched your nipples, making you whine and your back arch of the table. “Fuck, look at those tits, these natural baby?”

“Y-yes captain,” you whined, thighs squeezing around him involuntarily as he started rubbing your clit hard with a calloused thumb.

“Fucking nice,” he growled, groping your tit hard before his hand moved further up and squeezed around your neck. The restricted air flow made you light headed, adding to the dizziness you were feeling after two hard orgasms. You vaguely registered the creaking of the table behind you and the striped mask hovering over your face, before Kid released your neck, only for Killer to grab your face and tilt your head back, shoving his cock in your mouth and giving you no time to adjust before he was gagging you with it. You had to keep your eyes shut as they watered, trying hard not to gag as Killer's cock choked you, so you didn't see how Wire stood at your side, playing with the tit that Kid wasn't already occupying as he continued to fist himself, rolling your nipple between his fingers and slapping your soft mound. Your hands came up to grab at the lacing on Killer's jeans for support as you slid back and forth on the dining table, unable to concentrate on anything except for breathing through your nose.

You moaned around Killer's cock as Kid pulled at your clit and you came again, your gummy walls squeezing him and pulling him to his own peak. He pulled out just in time to coat your pussy with cum, thick ropes beading between your labia and dripping to the rug below as he panted. The other two took that as their cue, Wire spraying hot ropes over your tits while Killer unloaded over your face, leaving you thankful that your eyes were shut. The three of them left you whining and panting on the table, leaving you cold as the three hot bodies around you suddenly disappeared. You felt used but in the best kind of way, running your hands over your body and playing with the cum, pushing Killer's into your mouth and moaning around your fingers as you sucked the frosting from them.

“What do you say, mouse?” Kid purred, sitting back in his chair, pushing his cock back into his pants.

“Thank you captain,” you whimpered, touching your oversensitive clit with gentle circles. You couldn't help yourself when you felt unbelievably lewd covered in the collective cum of three different men.

“Look at her, can't get enough, she's jerking herself off with my cum,” Kid laughed, “go on then mouse, make yourself cum, show us how much you like being our little cum rag.”

You whined as you touched yourself harder with purpose, knowing it wouldn't take much to get yourself off given how sensitive you were right now. You dipped your fingers inside yourself, curling them the way you knew you liked best, zeroing in on the spot you knew would make you squirt, wanting to impress Kid. You sat up a little to reach better, seeing Kid's shit-eating grin as he watched you, looking pleased and amused as you fingered yourself in front of him. “Good girl mouse,” he purred, “you gonna cum for us sweetheart? Show us how much you love being the ship whore.”

“Ahhh- Kid~” you whined, your torso falling back to the table as your back arched, pumping your fingers fast in and out of your overused and gaping cunt as you felt the coil in your abdomen pull tight, your free hand running over your breasts and spreading Wire's spend over them. “Gonna- gonna cum- can I cum captain?”

“Good mouse, you can cum,” he purred, impressed by your naturally submissive behaviour. You did so immediately, squirting hard with a scream the whole Grandline would hear. With nothing for your release to catch against you almost got Kid with it, which pleased him greatly to watch as your release sprayed out over the rug and tabletop. You collapsed against the table with your legs draped over the side, shaking and twitching with aftershocks, entirely spent. Kid pulled your fingers from your cunt and licked them clean, making you whine as he gave your pussy a playful slap. “Good girl, mouse, you did good. You can go back to Heat now sweetheart.”

Heat helped you off the table, pulling you into his lap where you could feel his raging erection straining in his pants under your ass. He buried his face in your shoulder with a needy whine, and as exhausted as you were you couldn't do much to comfort him, so you just pressed your face against his. Killer and Wire had already returned to their seats, acting like nothing had happened, like there wasn't a puddle of fluids on the table or a stain on the rug, and like you weren't still covered in cum, not that Heat or yourself minded. He hated smelling the others on you, but he was too turned on to complain.

“Right,” Kid cleared his throat, “now that we've gotten that out of the way, Sabaody is a few days away.” You did your best to show him you were paying attention, but it was difficult given your half asleep state. “So you better have a plan for how you're gonna prove you're not full of shit. As tight as that pussy is, you ain't stayin’ on the ship if you can't prove your story.”

“Mmm, I have a plan, Captain,” you replied with a half-lidded gaze, “I can write down everything that'll happen, give it to one of you so you know I'm not changing it. Then afterwards you'll see everything I wrote down happened. I don't think you should read it till you're back though, I don't know yet if telling you will change things, so while I'm proving myself it would be best to play it safe.”

“Hmm,” Kid hummed, “alright then. But Heat is coming with us, so you're gonna have to come too. I don't trust anyone else to babysit you when we have no proof right now that you don't have powers.”

“Ah, I'd rather you lock me in the brig, to be honest,” you replied anxiously, “not to spoil things but Sabaody will not be… uneventful… and I have no way of defending myself. I'm a decent shot with a rifle from a stationary position but I have no experience with fighting. I only know how to shoot because my dad used to take me hunting, I'd be no good in a real fight. I'll just be a burden out there.”

“Fine, but if you turn out to be full of shit, don't think we won't drag you straight to the closest human auction house,” Kid threatened.

“Noted,” you shivered, hoping like hell that you just being in this world hadn't already fucked up the series of events due to play out. You weren't keen on getting branded and sold off to some Celestial cunt. Being used like a sex doll was only fun if it was with your favourite boys.

“Heat, get her cleaned up,” Kid barked before standing, “you're dismissed.”

Heat quickly picked you up bridal style and carried you out of the room without another word before Kid could change his mind, eager to have you to himself again. He'd clean you up, for sure, but not before he put his own mark on you.

[Next Chapter]

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[archfeyreveries]

[CHAPTER 3] He will not be denied

Raphael had finally claimed the Crown of Karsus, a relic of unimaginable power, though it was not by Tav's hand. Her scornful refusal to aid him in his pursuit still burned deep within him, a slight he would never allow to go unanswered. Tav had dismissed and betrayed him as if he were a mere nuisance—a grave mistake she would soon come to regret. Raphael was not one to be cast aside lightly. By all the seething flames of Hell, he would not be denied. Pairing: Raphael x F!Tav Content: NSFW | BDSM | Humiliation kink | Rough | Dirty talk | Creampie | TW: Kind of non-con Author's note: More lewdness for our sake.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

The next blow landed with ruthless precision, the sharp crack echoing through the chamber. Tav gasped, the pain radiating through her body, intertwining with the dark pleasure that pulsed within her.

"A-Arfour..." she stammered, struggling to keep her voice steady, but Raphael offered her no reprieve. His fingers curled into her flesh, claws scraping delicately at first, then digging deeper, sending shivers down her spine as he explored her most intimate, vulnerable places.

Without warning, he thrust two fingers inside her, his movements unrelenting, each stroke making her moan and squirm. She tried in vain to remain still, to resist, but her body betrayed her—her nipples hardened, her back arched, her need intensifying with every teasing touch.

"Please" she whispered, her voice raw and barely audible, a desperate plea slipping from her lips. What the hell was this overwhelming force? Was it the power of his newly acquired Crown of Karsus? Or perhaps something deeper within herself? She no longer knew, nor did she care. All that filled her mind was the sensation of his fingers tracing over her, his touch igniting a fire that consumed her entirely.

Raphael paused, his breath warm against her ear as he leaned in closer. "What was that, pet?" he mocked, his voice dripping with amusement. "I didn't quite catch that."

His fingers withdrew, only to glide over her clit, drawing slow, torturous circles that sent electric jolts through her. He alternated between soft caresses and rough, possessive thrusts of his clawed fingers, driving her to the brink of madness.

"Beg" he whispered, his voice a seductive snarl. "Tell me what you desire. Tell me how much you need me—how much you ache for my cock inside you, filling you, claiming you as mine."

His words were a cruel, intoxicating blend of lust and humiliation, each syllable tightening around her like a vice. Heat flooded her cheeks as he traced her lower lips with his wet fingers, his movements agonizingly slow, each touch designed to torment her further.

Tav trembled, the weight of his command pressing down on her, suffocating her defiance. She felt herself unraveling, her resistance crumbling as the dark, forbidden desire took hold. She despised how much she wanted him, how much she longed for his touch, his dominance, his control.

"Please..." she whimpered, her voice trembling with need. "Please, Raphael... Sir... I want it. I want you."

Raphael's lips curled into a wicked smile, his satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "Ah, there it is—my sweet little pet." He purred, his fingers teasing her entrance as he savored her surrender. "Such sweet words... so eagerly offered."

His grip tightened in her hair, pulling her up onto his lap with commanding ease. The devil leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered, "Now, my precious mouse, speak your true desires. Tell me exactly what you crave, and perhaps... I'll indulge your wicked little wishes."

Tav hesitated for only a moment, her breath catching in her throat before she forced the words past her lips. "I want your cock... inside me... marking me as yours."

Raphael's chuckle was a low, rumbling sound, rich with malevolent pleasure. "Good girl" he murmured, his fingers sliding inside her once more, his movements deliberate, each thrust a tantalizing promise of what was to come. "You’ve earned your reward."

With a fluid motion, he adjusted her position, turning her to straddle his lap, his cock pressing insistently against her wet entrance through the fabric of his pants. He paused, savoring the anticipation, the way her body trembled above him, poised on the edge of surrender.

Slowly, agonizingly so, Raphael unfastened his pants, the heat radiating from his red cock palpable, its hellish size a promise of the torment and pleasure to come. He teased her entrance with the tip, barely brushing against her wetness, his fingers digging possessively into her hips, controlling, adjusting the angle with meticulous care. He was in no hurry, savoring the way she trembled, her patience hanging by a thread.

"Is this what you crave?" he asked, his voice husky with lust, his words a taunt as his fingers traced over her bare shoulders, then down to her chest, where they lingered, sending jolts of electricity through her.

His hand moved to her chin, gripping it firmly, forcing her to meet his gaze. His touch seared against her skin, his eyes burning with dark amusement. "You would be on your knees, begging for mercy right now" he murmured, his voice a dangerous whisper, "if I weren’t so inclined to indulge you. Why don’t you show some manners and thank me?"

Tav hesitated, her gaze locked with his, the fire of his words scorching her from the inside out. Slowly, deliberately, she leaned forward, her lips brushing against his cheek, her breath warm and uneven against his skin. "Thank you, Sir" she whispered, her voice trembling with a desperate need she could no longer hide.

Raphael chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through her. His fingers tightened in her hair as he pulled her closer, his lips crashing against hers in a hungry, demanding kiss. His tongue invaded her mouth, claiming it just as he claimed her breath, her essence, her very will. He took what he wanted with a relentless hunger, and she gave it willingly, her surrender as intoxicating as his dominance.

CHAPTER 4 >

[kelcemenow]

Drive Me Crazy - Chapter 2.

Pairing Travis Kelce x Reader

Words 1661

Warnings Strong language, but not much and a wee bit of flirting.

Huge thank you to the Anon who sent this in! They had such amazing words to say about my writing which I massively appreciate and then to top it off, had an incredible request for me! I only have experience with mechanics in the UK, so I've tried my best with this one! "I just recently got interested in Travis K. X reader stories and wanted to let you know, I read all of yours as quickly as I could. They are so well done and I couldn’t help but laugh/giggle and feel through each word you typed out. You’re doing amazing and I’m so glad to have stumbled onto your page. If you have any space for a request, I’d be curious about what Trav would think about having a military (like fighter pilot) or engineer or mechanic girlfriend. I see a lot of stories with him paired with models/singers/social media individuals (which are phenomenal!) but just wondering how he would be with a more tomboy like girlfriend!"

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

The dialling tone rang loudly in your ear for a few seconds as you wedged the office phone between your head and left shoulder. You typed up a couple of notes on the computer when the other end of the line picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it that Mr Kelce? It's Y/N from KC Auto repairs." You said, checking your notes.

A deep voice laughed, "Hey, yeah it's Travis. You can call me Travis."

"Oh, okay Travis. I had a look at your car and there is a problem with your combustion chamber. You see, vehicles need the right amount of air and fuel to mix and then-"

"Woah woah, you lost me at combustion." Travis said, "Just tell me, is the car a goner?"

You giggled, "No, you just need new spark plugs. It's around $250 including labour."

You could hear him sigh down the line, "Oh! That's fine then, do what you need to do."

"Okay, sure thing. I'll be finished with it by 4pm. Are you able to come and collect around then?"

There was a short silence, "I've got a crazy day. I got a couple of things to figure out first, I don't know if I'll be around."

You checked your schedule in the large leather bound diary in front of you, "Well, I'll be in the shop late working on some other cars, so if you drop by anytime before 7, I should still be here."

"Awesome, I'll stop by!"

"Great, catch you later." You placed the phone back onto the receiver and quickly jotted down in your diary details to remind yourself to replace Travis' spark plugs.

The office door opened and the noises of the shop floor grew increased for a second before they were muffled again as the door closed.

"Hey sport." You felt your Dad's hands on your shoulders, "Your headache gone yet?"

"Not really. I already got two cars to finish up, a service and now these new spark plugs for do for that GMC." You pointed your pen in the direction of Travis' car as you began to write out a worksheet.

Your Dad leant down across your shoulder, "I could do the GMC for you?"

"Dad no, Dr Martin said you had to take it easy." You covered the worksheet with your hand.

He swiped your hand away, "Oh come on, I'm fine! It's spark plugs."

You laughed until you noticed that his face had quickly changed when he caught sight of the sheet, "What's wrong?"

His once rosy cheeked complexion was now a ghostly shade of white, "Travis Kelce...you have Travis Kelce's car here?"

"Yeah, why?"

His eyes widened as he looked towards the shop floor, "His car is in my shop? The GMC, that's Travis Kelce's car?"

Your eyebrows lowered in confusion, "Yeah, he dropped it off this morning?"

"Oh man! Y/N, you gotta let me do it! The boys at the fishing lake aren't gonna believe this!"

"What is going on? Who is this guy?" Your voice was beginning to heighten in pitch.

Your Dad lifted his sweatshirt up to reveal a bright red jersey with the number 87 emblazoned on the front, "Travis Kelce is one of the greatest tight ends the Chiefs have ever seen!"

You rolled your eyes and turned back to your diary for the day.

"Which you would know if you ever watched football with me!" He poked you in the arm with his finger.

You tore off the worksheet from the pad, "If I give you this, will you stop shouting and making my headache worse?"

You Dad carefully took the paper from your hands and gently kissed the top of your head before dancing his way out of the office and onto the shop floor, Travis' GMC waiting in the corner of the garage.

______________________________________________________________

Glancing at the digital clock on the wall, you noted that it was 6.25pm. All of your colleagues had already left for the day, leaving you in the shop by yourself. You preferred working alone but your Dad's business had built up a good reputation in the city for being the best repair shop and it was always busy.

When you were younger, you had always preferred fixing your Barbie's houses to make them better as apposed to playing with the dolls themselves. As a teenager you could always be found in the workshop tinkering with tools and learning everything you could from your Dad. You started helping him in his shop during the summer and when you left school, he took you on and gave you a job. You saved every penny you could and when your Dad needed to take a step back from work, you bought into the business, running it alongside him.

You gazed up at the underside of the Ford that was lifted above you, squinting as the night drew in. The crackled radio played in the background and as you hummed along to yourself, the faint sound of footsteps seemed to blend into the music.

"Um...hello?"

You turned your head towards the direction of the deep voice, a silhouette standing in the doorway of the shop.

You squinted further, trying to make out any defining features but to no avail. "Karl, if this is you trying to scare the shit out of me, you gotta try harder than that." You shook your head and dropped your wrench down onto the floor, the sound of the metal hitting the cement loudly echoing in the vast room.

The figure stepped further forwards, his hands held up, "I'm sorry...it's Travis. I'm just here to pick up my car?"

You felt your cheeks flush red, "Travis? I am so sorry, that was really unprofessional of me."

"Hey, it's all good! Don't worry, I probably shouldn't have lingered in the doorway watching you."

Your mouth twisted to the side, "You were watching me?"

His eyes grew bigger, "Not in a creepy way. But now I've said that it wasn't in a creepy way, it sounds like it was in a creepy way."

You wiped your hands on your towel, smiling slightly as you listened to him struggle.

"I was just...impressed. Like I said earlier, I have no clue when it comes to shit like this." He looked around the room at the various tools and parts that were dotted around.

You slowly nodded your head, "Well, thanks...I guess?"

Travis scratched the back of his head and looked down at his feet, a clear indication that he was nervous. You took the opportunity to really look at him. He was wearing bright white trainers, dark wash jeans and a Louis Vuitton jacket with a white shirt underneath. He was so pristine and you were quite concerned that he wouldn't make it out of the shop without a smudge of oil on him.

"So, my car?"

You looked towards it, digging the keys from one of your many pockets, a couple of bolts coming out with them, "Uh yeah, my Dad took great pride in fixing your car. He's a big fan."

"Oh yeah? Well please, tell your Dad I said thanks!" He smiled before looking around again, "You on your own?"

You sighed, "Yeah, I got a few things to clear up on these babies and then I'll be done."

He unlocked his car and opened the door, pausing for a second before he turned back to you, "Wanna go for a drink?"

Your heart stopped for a beat or two and your chest tightened, a feeling you weren't used to. Men didn't usually ask you out, especially not at work. You didn't exactly make an effort to only be covered in grease all day and everyone knew that your Dad wouldn't be far away, meaning most potential dates kept you very much at an arms length. But here he was, an exception.

"I've still got some work to do." You looked down at your current appearance, "And I might not be down with the latest trends, but I'm pretty sure no one will let me in anywhere looking like this."

Travis smiled coyly, "So, is that a no?"

You winced at his hidden hurt, guessing he wasn't used to women turning him down, "Thanks...but no." Digging into your pocket, you retrieved his invoice, black fingerprints smudged across the paper.

As he reached to take the invoice, his large hand covered yours and you subconsciously held your breath, a fast heat rising to your face.

"No sweat, I might see you around anyway?" He jumped into his car, turning the engine on, "I'll wire you the money for the spark...things."

You nodded in acknowledgement, watching as he pulled away carefully out of the garage and into the night. You unclenched your shoulders and laughed to yourself, turning your attention back to the Ford.

______________________________________________________________

"A package? Who from?" You questioned.

Jordan shrugged his shoulders, "I don't know. I didn't open it."

"We never get packages."

You became slightly distracted as Jordan tugged at the bottom hem of his hoodie and pulled it up and over his head, his shirt lifting up slightly to reveal a peek at his toned abs. He threw the garment onto the floor beside him and gazed at you.

"Y/N?"

You blinked, "Uh...I'll go and have a look now."

You furrowed your brows, making your way towards the office and shaking your head on the way, exacerbated at yourself.

On the desk was a small brown package with no indication of who it was from. You ripped open the paper and carefully pulled out the framed photograph. It was a picture of Travis midgame, the ball safely clutched in his gloved hands and speeding towards the end zone. He had signed the corner of the photograph. You turned the frame over to see some slightly messy handwriting on the back.

"For your Dad."

You smiled at his kind gesture.

"Let me know when you want to go for that drink."

______________________________________________________________

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[incandescentlysomething]

Lady of the Ashes: Chapter 1

House of the Dragon Season 1

Aemond x TargaryenOC

Chapter Word Count: 7390

She was his everything... For her...he would do anything.

From the moment of her birth, Aemond Targaryen swore himself to the protection of his niece Aelinor Velaryon. As the two grew up inseparable, they find themselves entangled in the Dance of Dragons, battling to stay together even as their families try to pull them apart.

A/N: Canon compliant but things change around. Currently cross-posting on A03. Will be approximately 12 chapters aligning with season 1.

Let me know what you think!

Masterlist A03

115 AC

On the second day of August, in the year 115 AC, the worst storm in a hundred years swept through King’s Landing. Ships smashed against each other in the harbor, livelihoods and people being whisked away by the tossing waves. The maesters — or the bolder ones anyway — whispered that the gods were unhappy with the Westeros, or specifically, with the ruling family. But those whispers were silenced almost immediately, for this was King’s Landing after all, the very seat of Targaryen power.

Rhaenyra Targaryen watched the storm from her window, one hand braced against each wall, her face being bathed by the pounding rain. Her maids had begged to close the shutters to conserve some of the warmth in her room, but she would not have. Her labors had been ongoing for nearly a full day, and only the sound of the wind and the cool spray of the rain could calm her as she breathed through the pain. From her spot high above the city, she could see clay tiles being ripped from their roofs, and in some places entire buildings were collapsing. It shouldn’t have been calming, but it was a welcome distraction and a stark reminder of her place in this world.

“Please, Princess,” her midwife pleased with her. “You must keep warm.”

“I am plenty warm!” Rhaenyra snapped, “and I will stay where I damn please.” As if summoned by her anger, another painful contraction rippled through her abdomen. 

She could hear the midwife turn to one of her maids, beseeching the woman to find her husband. Rhaenyra let out a scoff. Since they had returned from their yearlong sojourn to Dragonstone, during which time she had entertained her uncle Daemon and his wife, Laenor had taken to spending time with one of the knights of the house. He was no uncaring nor unfeeling, but she doubted he felt any guilt about sheltering elsewhere in the city while his wife labored.

A door opened behind her. “The Queen wishes for news of the Princess.”

Rhaenyra groaned loudly, feeling the child move lower. She could hear her maid speaking in hushed tones to the intruder, assuring her of the steady progress of the birth. It didn’t feel steady. In fact, it felt rather like being torn in two. 

A heavy gust of wind pelted her face, and she found she could breathe easier under the onslaught. It was a necessary distraction from the conversation happening behind her, which was in itself an echo of the same conversation that had been happening every hour on the hour for the past day. She should have expected it. Alicent had been even more of a presence when Rhaenyra had labored with Jace, insisting that her own maids be present to ‘assist the Princess’. It had been for that very reason that, following the birth of her son, Rhaenyra had withdrawn her family to Dragonstone. But there would be no escaping Alicent this time.

Something smashed against the stone walls, and Rhaenyra screamed as another contraction hit her. She was not made for this. What did it say about her, that she was bringing her child into the world on such a day?

Queen Alicent Hightower paced in her chambers, bundled in a fur as the fire roared to keep the chill of the wind out of her room. The windows in her rooms had been boarded up immediately after the King’s, and she had ordered her children be brought to her. They played on the floor now, Aegon with a small collection of wooden knights, and Aemond and Helaena looking over a book of insects.

The Hand of the King, Lord Otto Hightower, sat at her desk, putting pen to a stack of letters that had amassed in the past week. They both turned when the doors opened and Alicent’s maid, Talya, stepped inside.

“The Princess’ labors are nearly finished,” Talya announced. “The midwife expects the babe within the hour.”

Alicent picked at her fingernail. “Have it brought to me and the King as soon as possible,” she ordered, “so that we might offer our congratulations.”

Talya curtsied and left the room.

Congratulations were far from Alicent’s mind, thought she knew her husband, who was sequestered in his own rooms to work on his model, would be anxious to see his grandchild. Alicent, too, was not without sympathy for the Princess, who had returned from her months away heavily pregnant and now labored alone in her chambers. But the birth of Rhaenyra’s first son had all but confirmed rumors of adultery, and Alicent was anxious to see if the second would lend further proof to the theory.

“I wish she had summoned a maester,” she said, half to herself. “So we might trust she is in good hands.”

“Her first son arrived without issue,” Otto said, seeming bored with his daughter’s worry. “Put it from your mind.”

But how could she? Rhaenyra’s child it might be, and Jacaerys too, but Alicent could not, by the light of the Seven or her own love for her own children, see a bastard seated on the throne. But that did not mean she wished for Rhaenyra to suffer in childbirth.

“Will the dragons be alright in the storm, mother?” It took her a moment to realize who had spoken. Aemond, her third child, looked up from his book, eyes shining in concern for the creatures he loved more than anything. Aemond was…a soft child, though she knew it delighted her husband to see him so enamored with the dragons and his Targaryen heritage. Alicent struggled to imagine a place for Aemond if Rhaenyra’s children were to succeed the throne, soft and sensitive as he was.

“They have survived far more difficult storms than this,” she assured him. “They will be fine.”

Aemond gave her a relieved smile, flipping the page for Helaena.

“What do you care?” Aegon sneered. “You don’t even have one.”

“I have an egg!” Aemond protested.

“It’ll never hatch,” Aegon laughed.

Aemind stood and ran from the room, tears already brimming in his eyes. Alicent sighed, moving to go after him. Some version of this argument was a near weekly occurrence between her two sons, and she struggled to decide if it was childish rivalry or if it represented something deeper.

“Let him be, Daughter,” Otto cautioned. “Boys must work through these things on their own.”

The urge to comfort her son already fading, Alicent resumed her pacing. She needed to be ready when news of the birth came. Through the cracks in her boarded up window, she could see rolling gray clouds in the distance.

Prince Aemond had managed to stop crying by the time he emerged from the tunnels and into the Princess’ Tower. He knew there were many passageways in the castle, but he was only aware of the ones that led from his room, as they afforded him the opportunity to seek out his freedom, and to hide his tears. He was embarrassed to admit, event at the tender age of five, how often he wept behind these cold stone walls.

It wasn’t fair how Aegon treated him, and it wasn’t fair that he had a dragon. Aegon might love Sunfyre, but he didn’t love dragons the way that Aemond did. He didn’t pour over stories of Old Valyria, trying to learn things that seemed impossible for a boy of his age. He deserved a dragon. He was ready for it.

Even Helaena, who did not have a dragon, had her love of science and bugs and all crawling things. It wasn’t proper, or terribly interesting to Aemond, but at least she had something. The only thing he had ever really loved or wanted, continued to be out of his reach.

He hadn’t meant to come to the Princess’ Tower, but it seemed to be the one place in the Red Keep with any type of activity. His mother usually forbade the children from playing here, wanting to keep them far away from his elder half-sister for some reason he didn’t quite understand. And if he wasn’t going to be allowed to go outside and see the dragons, which his mother had strictly forbidden, then he must find entertainment elsewhere.

Two maids scurried past his hiding place. “The babe is here, but the Princess has asked us to delay so that she might compose herself.”

This interested Aemond. He knew that his mother had ordered the babe to be brought to her immediately, though he didn’t understand why. Surely a babe was still a babe an hour after its birth as much as a few minutes? But the babe was here, and he was here, which meant he might get a chance to see his new niece or nephew before his mother and Aegon did.

His mind made up, he ducked out from behind the tapestry and marched up the stairs to his half-sister’s chambers, knocking sharply on the door. The chatter inside fell to silence, and he listened as a pair of footsteps moved toward the door.

A maid answered. “Prince Aemond?” She curtsied through her confusion. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“I wish to see the babe,” he declared, trying not to look like a little boy who had been crying not too long ago.

“My Prince, this is a birthing chamber, and it is not—”

“He may enter,” his half-sister’s voice carried, and it was all the invitation he needed to push around the maid (rather rudely, as his septa would tell him) and into the room.

Rhaenyra’s chambers were confusing to him. The window was wide open, and the sounds of the storm and a wicket chill swept into the room. Someone had stacked blankets at the base of the window to soak up all the rain coming through. Despite this, the fire was roaring in its hearth, nearly suffocating in its heat. Two women he had never seen before were rolling blankets stained with crimson into a bundle, while another was dumping red-tinged water from a metal tub out of the window. He blinked in confusion. That was more blood than he had ever seen in his life, even more than when Aegon had broken his nose with a practice sword. 

His half-sister was reclined on her bed, propped up by pillows, a bundle of blankets in her arms.

“Are you injured, sister?” He asked, creeping forward and trying not to think of the blood. He might not be overly close with his half-sister, as she was much older and not liked by his mother, but he did not like to see anyone hurt.

“No more than is expected, Aemond,” she said, not exactly warmly, but with a fresh dose of kindness that made his press a bit closer. He thought she looked exhausted, and her hair hung in sweaty mats about his face. Perhaps it was very difficult to have a baby, if it made such a mess. “Would you like to meet your niece?”

“A niece?” he moved forward, drawn by his curiosity. “It’s not a boy then.” A shame, for he would rather have liked a new playmate.

“No,” Rhaenyra laughed. “But rather a beautiful little girl. And you may be the first to meet her.”

Aemond wrinkled his nose. “Is she like Helaena? I like her well enough, but she talks often of bugs.”

She laughed again, a bit more brightly. “She is too little to have interests yet, Aemond. She does not even have a name.”

A person with no name? Somehow, that was utterly fascinating to Aemond, and he boldly leaned over the bed, trying to peek at the bundle in Rhaenyra’s arms. He could not imagine a world in which he was not Aemond, and this little baby did not even have a name of her own.

“Here she is,” Rhaenyra smiled down at the bundle, before lifting it to where Aemond could see.

His mouth dropped open as he beheld the tiny babe. He had expected an ugly, messy thing, and while she might be a bit wrinkly, and slightly blue, she was absolutely perfect. Small enough that he could have easily lifted her, with slick silver hair plastered to her head, and a tiny white hand curled into a little fist. He was reminded of depictions of the Mother in the Sept, who was often shown cradling a small, impossibly beautiful baby. 

“She’s pretty,” he said finally, though even he knew the word did not nearly suffice. “She doesn’t look like Jace.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Rhaenyra sounded a bit sad. “But I love her nonetheless.”

The baby cooed, and her tiny eyes blinked open, revealing a stunning shade of lavender more beautiful than anything Aemond had ever seen. She shuddered and stretched, her tiny, bird-like limbs shaking with the effort. Instantly, Aemond was flooded with worry for this little creature. How frightening it must be, to come into the world and meet so many strangers, all while a dreadful storm wailed outside. He wanted to keep her far from the world, to demand that his half-sister bar the windows and keep her locked away, warm and safe. 

But that wouldn’t be fair to the babe. Aemond knew all too well what it felt like to be suffocated within stone walls, and this little one deserved to see everything. When she was bigger, he could take her to the dragon pit, where she might watch the dragons train with him. Perhaps she would enjoy hearing stories of Old Valyria, and he worried that he may not know them well enough to do them justice. But those thoughts were overcrowded by fear. They were plans for tomorrow, when this little bird did not, to him, look strong enough to last the day.

“She’s too little,” he protested. “Will she be alright?”

“She’ll be alright,” Rhaenyra promised. “But she might need to be protected and helped while she is still small. Could you…help me do that, Aemond?”

Aemond studied the babe for a long moment. “Mother said it is a bad omen for her to be born during a storm.”

Rhaenyra frowned. The babe kicked her legs, and Aemond boldly reached forward to tuck the blanket back around her.

“But I don’t think she’s right,” he admitted. “She’s like a little sunbeam on a cloudy day.”

Perhaps the little boy did not mean to be so poetic, but his words filled Rhaenyra’s heart with a little bit of hope. It was true that the babe did not look like Jace, for they did not share a father, but she was the picture of a Targaryen beauty. No one could deny that she was Rhaenyra’s, or that she was perfect. She was a worthy reward for such a difficult labor. Not even Aemond, it seemed.

“You know Aemond,” she began cautiously. “She does not yet have a name. Might you have a suggestion?”

“Me?” He was shocked. “What about Ser Laenor?”

“He isn’t here,” Rhaenyra’s voice was harsh. “Come, we mustn’t let this little one linger without a name of her own for much longer.”

That did seem to be a terrible injustice, in Aemond’s opinion. He struggled to think of a name as perfect as the little creature in front of him. It would have to be a Valyrian name, he decided, for she deserved one, and it would have to be beautiful and unique, only to her. He was struck by the realization that this was the most important thing he had ever done.

“What about Aelinor?” He suggested shyly.

Rhaenyra smiled, looking down on her baby. “I think that is perfect. Will you help my little Aelinor, Aemond? When the world is harsh and cruel, might she have you to lean on?”

Aemond could not imagine the world ever being cruel to little Aelinor — his Aelinor, he decided — but he made the promise anyway. 

“I swear,” he said earnestly, vowing not only to himself, not to his half-sister, but to the precious thing in her arms. He lifted his hand and gently stroked one finger along her tiny arm, the skin impossibly soft and delicate beneath his touch. “I’ll become the strongest dragon rider in the world, so that I can protect you. I swear it.”

And for those few minutes, before news reached the Queen, Rhaenyra felt that the world might not have been as harsh as she knew it to be. Her daughter was healthy and beautiful, and already she was winning hearts. Little Aelinor was exactly what Aemond had said, a spot of sun on a dark day, and she was loved.

No one could ever have imagined that in the years and wars to come, it was tiny Aelinor, and her sworn protector, who would shape the future of House Targaryen. 

119 AC

At the age of four, Princess Aelinor Velaryon ruled over the Red Keep like a little queen. Though not one for barking orders — she was both too meek and too shy for that — she found the castle filled with those resolved to fulfill her every whim. Never in her short life had she known a moment’s hardship, for such inconveniences were kept fiercely away by those who loved her.

Her mother, the Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, doted on her only daughter, even as she brought a second son into the world. Her daughter was the perfect image of her mother, in looks if not in temperament, and Rhaenyra was determined to keep her under her wing for as long as possible. The motives could not be entirely unselfish, for Aelinor alone of Rhaenyra’s children bore the look of a true Targaryen, and contributed heavily to the preservation of Rhaenyra’s reputation. 

The Lord Laenor Velaryen, the girl’s father, found himself rather at odds with what to do with the girl. Though she did not resemble him in the slightest, he found her sweet, and reminded him of a calmer, meeker Laena. The reminder of his sister was enough to generate some fondness in his heart for the child, if it could not be called a true fatherly love. He did not spend much time with the girl (or indeed any of his children), but he made sure to always bring the child a bauble from his travels, and offer her a story should she ask.

King Viserys, her grandfather, doted on the child, whom he found to be the perfect image of his late wife, Aemma, and even Her Majesty the Queen could not find it in herself to hate the child. Not when little Aelinor so often looked up to Queen Alicent and declared her ‘beautiful like a faerie’.

The only true hardship in Princess Aelinor’s life came from her brothers, the Princes Jacaerys and Lucerys Velaryon. Luc was young, and so it was most often Jace who took to bullying the young girl. It was difficult to say why, and perhaps that was why their mother did so little to stop it. It might simply have been the way of things with siblings, for Rhaenyra had none of her own. But many in the curt whispered that the boys had far darker motivations for taunting and teasing the little girl, even if the children themselves were unaware.

When Jacaerys pushed Aelinor from her chair so that he might sit next to the King, the court whispered ‘it is because she has the look of a Targaryen, and the boy does not’. And when Luc pulled her hair, they suggested that his jealously moved him to hurt the girl.

Aelinor loved her brothers though, and were she a little stronger or a little bigger, she would have teased them right back. She knew her brothers would never hurt her, not truly, and so she did not let herself be too bothered by their harassment. 

Aelinor remained a happy child, through and through, in large part due to her best friend, for there was no one in the court, nor in her family, as devoted to her happiness as her beloved Aemond. On any given day, one could expect to see the young prince following behind the little princess like an ever-faithful shadow, quick to pick her up should she fall, to wipe away her tears, and fight her battles for her. For all the rumors of rifts between the factions of House Targaryen, their loyalty to each other seemed to bridge the gap of familial animosity.

“Aemond,” Aelinor said eagerly. “Can you tell me what you see?”

They were hiding in the rafters, in a space normally reserved for servants lighting chandeliers, spying on the feast and dancing taking place in the great hall below. It was Prince Aegon’s eleventh name day, and the dancing was expected to last right into the night. Aemond had been forced to attend for the first few hours, but had managed to sneak away and find Aelinor, who had been too young to be invited. Now they were hidden behind a wall on the upper level, Aemond tall enough to peer over and Aelinor trying to stand on her toes.

Aemond considered his answer. “What would you like to hear about? The dancing or the food?”

“The dancing!” She exclaimed. “Is it like in the stories?”

He knew which stories she was referring to. Aemond spent much of his time regaling Aelinor with the stories of Old Valyria, and while she loved tales of dragons and spells as much as he did (though he did tend to leave out some of the gorier details of blood magic), it was the great romances that really captured her young mind.

“The ladies are all spinning around, and their dresses are very fine,” he said. “And I can see that all of the lords are very much in love with them.”

Truthfully, he could only really see his mother, who danced with her uncle in the middle of the nearly-empty dancefloor. The hired musicians now played over the sound of drunken revelries, most of the guests draped over taples with tankards of ale in their hands. All of the other children had left by now, including Aegon, who had arrogantly boasted that he would stay up all night for his party. He also couldn’t see Princess Rhaenyra  But Aelinor didn’t need to know any of that. 

“I wish I could be down there,” the girl sighed, spinning around so that the edges of her bedrobe twirled outward. “I could meet a handsome prince.”

Aemond turned from watching the party, smiling down at her as she spun about. “Am I not handsome enough for you, Lina?”

Aelinor stopped then, looking very serious. “You’re the most handsome, even more handsome than your brothers or mine, or any of the princes in the stories.”

Aemond grinned. That was what he loved best about Aelinor. Even at the age of four, he knew without a doubt that she meant everything she said with every fibre of her being. As far as he knew, she had never even told a lie to anyone. She just loved and loved with her entire heart, and he felt grateful that she shared even a small piece of it with him.

“Come then, if you wish it, we shall dance,” he held out a hand, leading her through a clumsy imitation of one of the dances he had seen earlier. Aelinor held her skirt up with one hand and he whirled her around, careful not to let her trip over her dress.

“What’s your favorite part of the stories, Aemond?” She asked him, swaying from side to side.

He answered honestly. “I like the dragons. I like hearing about the bond between dragons and their riders, and how they became heroes and legends.” He was filled with a great sadness then, for her did not have a dragon of his own. Aelinor did, her little egg had hatched shortly after her birth, though she was too young to have done more than pet the hatchling. 

“You’ll be the best dragon rider ever,” Aelinor promised. “I just know it.”

He didn’t doubt that she believed it.

“Do you want to know my favorite part, Aemond?” She asked, giggling as he swayed her from side to side.

“Of course, Lina.”

She sighed dramatically. “I like the happy endings, when the heroes bring their princesses a troven.”

“It’s a token, Lina,” he smiled. “And yes, I know you love the happy endings.” He was prone to adding happy endings to all his stories, knowing how much she loved them. 

“Come now, it is time to get you to bed.” It was well past her bedtime, and Aelinor did not protest as he took her hand and returned her to her family.

Early the next morning, Alicent walked into her sitting room to find Aemond digging through one of her jewelry boxes.

“Aemond, whatever are you doing?” She glanced briefly at the breakfast table, where Aegon was slathering a fruit spread on a piece of bread, but chose to take nothing for herself.

Aemond didn’t reply, setting a gold chain to the side and continuing to dig. “Just looking for something.”

“Hm,” Alicent hummed. “Did you have fun with Aelinor last night?”

“Yes, we watched some of the dancing.” 

His brother laughed, but Aemond chose to ignore it. He now had a selection of jewels set next to him on the table, and was continuing his hunt.

“Why are you laughing, Aegon?” Alicent asked.

Aegon snorted. “I just think it’s funny that Aemond hangs out with babies rather than acting like a man.”

This was rather funny, especially coming from a boy as flippant and juvenile as Aegon, but Alicent couldn’t deny that the thought had occured to her as well. Aemond was nearly nine, and his closest companion was a little girl of four. Aemond was already an odd child, and it didn’t bode well for him to be so distanced from his peers.

“Aelinor isn’t a baby, she’s special,” Aemond declared, spinning to face his mother, holding his palm outstretched. “Mother, may I have this.”

Balanced on his palm was a large sapphire, too large for him to close his fist around. It was roughly cut, and had been given to the Queen for her to choose its cut and setting herself, but she had never gotten around to it, preferring emerald tones over sapphire.

“For what?” She asked.

A red flush stained Aemond’s cheeks, and Alicent did not even need to hear his reply. “Are you sure, Aemond? That is a very large gem, and she’s very little.”

Aemond held it tightly in his fingers. “Please. She loves treasure.”

That was a gross underestimation of Aemond’s motivations. Yes, Aelinor did love treasure as much as any little princess, but the truth was, her sleepy mumblings about heroes and tokens had rattled around his brain all night. She had called him a handsome prince, and he felt he needed to do something to earn it.

“Please?” He repeated.

Alicent considered her next words carefully. On one hand, she did not want the court to hear of her passing a gift of such value to the Princess Rhaenyra’s family. Or rather, she did not want her father to hear of it. But she had no real attachment to the stone, having already forgotten which visiting lord or lady had gifted it to her, and it might serve to address what she saw as the larger concern.

“Very well,” Aemond’s face erupted in glee, “but you must make me a promise.”

“Anything!” He exclaimed.

“From now on, you will join Aegon for his morning lessons. That means with the maesters some days, and in the training yard on others.”

“What?” 

“Why?” Aegon demanded.

Alicent held up a hand to silence both of her sons. “You’re not as little as you were, Aemond. This is important.”

“But Aelinor —”

“Aelinor must also study with her Septas,” Alicent said. “Do I have your agreement?”

Aemond looked a bit dejected, but nodded slowly. “I promise.”

“Well, I don’t even want him to train with me!”

The next day Aelinor had to hunt for Aemond throughout the castle. He wasn’t waiting outside her door when she awoke, nor was he in the library, picking out a new story for her. It took her nearly an hour to find him in the most unlikely of places.

He was testing out the different practice swords, trying to see which felt the least foreign in his hand, when Aelinor emerged on the walkway above the training yard. Ser Harwin Strong lifted her easily, carrying her down the steps and setting her down on a flat stone. His efforts were futile, for she immediately leapt off and splashed through the mud to reach Aemond.

“Are you going to learn to fight, Aemond?” She asked, excited. “Can I learn too?

The thought was ridiculous, but Aemond didn’t laugh. “When you are bigger, Lina, I promise.” He couldn’t bear the thought of her being injured, so this was one of the few instances in which he had no choice but to refuse her.

“Alright,” she sighed. “Can I stay and watch?”

Aemond was suddenly embarrassed at the thought of her watching him train. He would not be very good, and he couldn’t bear for Aelinor to think any less of him. The sapphire hung heavy in his pocket, and he was thankful for the distraction.

“Not today, Lina. But I have a gift for you.”

“A gift?” She bounced on her toes. The hem of her lilac dress was already stained with mud, but her silver hair was tied back neatly back with a ribbon. Her whole frame shook as she bounced in anticipation. “What is it?”

Aemond pulled the sapphire out of his pocket, unwrapping the silk handkerchief he had used to cover it. “This is for you. Just like from the stories.”

Aelinor’s gasp was almost comical as she took in the stone. “For me?”

“Yes,” Aemond said, letting her take it in her small hands. She had to grip it with both hands to hold it, the gem ridiculously large for her. “But you must be very careful with it, alright?”

Aelinor stared at it for a moment longer. In the morning light the gem reflected a ripple of cerulean blue across her palms, and she felt she could have wasted away the day studying it. Suddenly she leapt forward to wrap Aemond in a hug. “Thank you, thank you!” She cried. “It is the best thing in the world.”

Aemond squeezed her back. “I am glad you like it. “Now go, we both have lessons.”

Aelinor gave him one last squeeze, before turning to stomp back to her waiting Kingsguard. Aemond just smiled, pleased with himself.

That evening, Aelinor sat in front of the hearth in her mother’s chambers, half-listening as her brothers recounted their day, but mostly studying the sapphire in her hands. Her mother had been astonished to see the magnitude of the gift she had received, but she had not taken it away.

“Boys, stay here with Aelinor. I have something to discuss with your father.” Rhaenyra disappeared into the next room.

Jace squatted down next to his sister, pointing at the stone. “What’s that?”

“It’s my token!” Aelinor exclaimed.

“It’s pretty,” Luc was on her other side.

“I know!” Aelinor beamed. “Aemond gave it to me. It’s just like the treasures from the stories and I—”

Jace interrupted her. “Aemond? You let him give you a gift?” Unlike his younger siblings, Jace wasn’t entirely unaware of the whispers that followed him at court. And he was more than aware that while he dealt with sideways glances and whispers, he knew that Aelinor was largely immune to those comments. That spark of jealousy colored his relationship with his sister, sometimes overclouding his love for her with envy.

Aelinor was confused by his question. Why shouldn’t Aemond give her a gift? He was her Aemond after all. But Jace’s question made her worry. Perhaps she needed to give him a gift in return. But what did she have that was as wonderful as this?

“Aemond isn’t our friend, Aelinor,” Jace cautioned. “You can’t trust him.”

“Aemond is my friend,” Aelinor countered, her faith in him steadfast. “He just doesn’t like you.”

All of a sudden, Luc snatched the gem out of her hand, holding it away from her reach. “It’s so blue!”

“Let me see it, Luc,” Jace took it, holding it near the fire to see it better.

“Give it back!” Aelinor sprung to her feet. “It isn’t yours! It’s mine!”

“Why should you get a gift like this, and from Aemond of all people?” Jace, who thought himself much older and wiser, tried to reason with his sister. “You cannot keep it.”

“I can! He gave it to me!” Aelinor jumped to reach it, nearly tripping over her skirts.

“I’m sorry, sister. But this is for the best. “And Jace, with the type of carelessness that only a boy can muster, tossed the sapphire into the fire.

Aelinor wailed. “You stupid, stupid boy! Aemond gave that to me!” She beat at his side with her little fists.

Jace pushed her off, sending her stumbling to the floor. “It’s just a trinket, Aelinor. We can find you another one. A better one.”

But Aelinor already knew in her heart that there would never be a better gift than the one Aemond had given her. She pushed onto her knees and crawled closer to the fire, sniffling as she watched the flames lick at the blue gem. Already black was creeping up the edges, marring its beautiful surface. Aemond had given her that gift because he loved, she knew it. And she wasn’t going to let her brother’s jealousy take it away.

New determination flowing through her veins, Aelinor reached forward into the fire, and grasped the gem firmly in her hand.

Her screams echoed through the hall of the keep. 

Aemond was reading by candlelight, just beginning to nod off when a pounding began at his door. A thousand things occurred to him as he scrambled from his bed. It could be his mother, angry that he was still awake, or it could be something more serious, such as a fire or an attack of some kind.

He had scarcely set his feet on the floor when the door burst open, and he was surprised to see not only his mother there, looking very perturbed in her nightgown and robe, but also Ser Harwin Strong, the Kingsguard to the Princess Rhaenyra.

“Aemond,” his mother sighed. “I’m sorry, but there was no helping it.”

“No helping what, mother?” Aemond was concerned. Was that sweat on Ser Harwin’s brow? “Is there a fire?”

“No, child. There has been an…unfortunate accident.”

“What do you—”

Ser Harwin interrupted. “The Princess Aelinor has been grievously injured, and she calls for you. Her mother hoped you might calm her, so that she might let the maesters—”

Aemond was already pushing past them, running down the stairs as fast as his bare feet could carry him. Aelinor, injured? He could not imagine what might have happened, his thoughts already filled with the most horrible images. He should have been there, should have protected her. And where were her parents, her brothers, her guards? What were they doing that allowed her to be hurt?

He could hear Ser Harwin rushing behind him, but he did not stop to look. He just ran down the familiar corridors and began climbing the steps to the chambers the Princess Rhaenyra occupied with her family. No sooner had his foot landed on the bottom step of the tower that the most horrible wailing reached his ears.

“Aelinor!” She shouted, rushing up the steps and bursting into the room. He shoved past a crowd of maesters and Aelinor’s own parents and brothers, ignoring the rudeness of his arrival. Rhaenyra looked close to tears, her sons just as distraught, but Aemond only had eyes for Aelinor.

She sat on a divan, wilted against one side, her hand cradled in her lap. She was still wearing her beautiful, mud-covered dress from that morning, though the dirt had now dried into dust that flaked onto the velvet furniture. She was sobbing: great, heaving sobs that shook her entire body with the effort, letting out alternatively loud wails or soft moans of pain.

“Lina!” he exclaimed, dropping to his knees next to her. “What’s happened?”

She wailed louder, and he saw that she was gripping something in her little hand. The skin that he could see, mainly the sides and back of her hand, was a frightening shade of bright red, as though she’d left it out in the sun for too long.

“She wasn’t supposed to go after it,” Jace said. “She just reached right in!”

“What did she reach for, Jace?” Rhaenyra demanded. “You were supposed to watch her!”

Aemond ignored them, carefully lifting a hand to brush away the flood of tears. A maester knelt on her other side. “Young Prince, we need to let us see her hand. We fear she had been grievously burned.”

Burned? His Aelinor?

He spun his gaze around, zeroing on Jace. Little Luc clung to his brother’s shirt, tears running down his face. The nerve of him to cry, when his sister was suffering so.

“What have you done?” He demanded. “Why did you hurt her?”

“She was the one stupid enough to reach into a fireplace for a dumb jewel!” Jace spat back.

“Jewel? What jewel?” Ser Laenor asked, and his wife began to explain.

Aemond felt a feeling of dread come over him as he realized what Aelinor was holding so tightly in her hand. What she had hurt herself for. He leaned close, wrapping one arm around her shoulders. “I’m so sorry, Lina. Does it hurt terribly?”

She gave a pathetic nod, and he resisted the urge to cry. This was his fault, after all. He had given her the sapphire, and she had scarred herself just to save it from the fire. 

“Lina,” he whispered. “Please, you must let them help.”

Her lip quivered. “Make it stop hurting, Aemond.”

He hated himself for being unable to grant her wish. It made him want to turn around and punch Jace, and even little Luc, for putting her through this. It was their teasing and tormenting of her that had led to this, he was sure of it.

“Open your hand, Lina,” he coaxed. “And once they’ve taken care of you, I’ll tell you a new story, alright?”

That seemed motivation enough, and he moved to sit beside her, taking her uninjured hand in his as the maesters worked quickly to uncurl her burned fingers. Aelinor whimpered as the sapphire dropped to the floor, and Aemond felt like vomiting when he saw the mess left behind. A melted mass of burned skin and liquid flesh, her fingers curling in as if to protect the wound from the air. As soon as it was exposed, Aelinor began to cry anew, and Aemond drew her face into his shoulders.

“It will be alright, Lina,” he promised, even though he didn’t think it would be. “I’ll take care of you.”

Aelinor didn’t respond. She just clung to Aemond’s side and sobbed as they applied a salve and a bandage to her ruined hand. Both her mother and father came forward to try and comfort her, but any attempt to pry her away from Aemond only led to more tears.

Aelinor whispered something, and Aemond leaned down to hear it.

“Am I going to be ugly now, Aemond?” She said quietly.

“Never,” he swore. “You are as beautiful as ever, and no one could ever do anything to change that.” That, at least, he was sure of.

She seemed to take a little comfort in that, and Aemond worked with the maesters to convince her to drink some milk of the poppy. She fell asleep, slumped against Aemond’s side, her hand an unidentifiable mass of bandages. 

“Thank you, Prince Aemond,” Ser Laenor said, gently placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I will take her to bed now.”

Aemond wanted to protest, but while he might be strong enough to carry Aelinor playful around the castle, he could not move her without jostling her. Instead, he carefully passed her to her father, and stood from the sofa as she was carried away. He wanted to insist that someone stay with her through the night, but movement at the side of the room drew his attention away.

Rhaenyra had collapsed into a chair at the table, Jace and Luc sitting beside her. In Luc’s hand was the blackened sapphire they had pried from Aelinor’s grasp.

“You…you bastards!” Aemond shouted, walking up and snatching the jewel from him. “I gave this to Aelinor, not to you!”

“Boys, there is no need for—” Rhaenyra started.

“Who are you to give our sister gifts? You’re just trying to…trying to..” Jace struggled for words. “To turn her against us!”

“I’m not! I—” Aemond caught himself before he said I love her. “It doesn’t matter. You stole from her, and you hurt her, and I won’t ever forgive you for it.”

“Enough!” Rhaenyra stood. “Jace, take Luc and go to your room. I’ll be in to speak with you in a minute.”

Aemond watched as they walked away, scowling all the while. Only once the door had closed behind them did Rhaenyra turn to him.

“Thank you, Aemond,” she said sincerely. “I did not say it earlier, but you were a great comfort to Aelinor, and a great help to us all tonight.”

He did not think that his mother would enjoy hearing that he had been a ‘great help’ to his half-sister, nor was he particularly endeared to her at the moment. It was on her watch that Lina had been injured, after all. “I did it for Lina.” And not for you.

“I know you did, but I am grateful all the same.” Rhaenyra sighed. “She will be very unwell in the coming days. Can I trust that you will be there to help?”

It was a silly question. When, in all the days since Aelinor had been born, had Aemond not been there? Short of prying him from her side and locking him up, there would be nothing anyone could do to keep him away from his little princess.

Aemond looked down at the jewel in his palm, rubbing some of the soot away with his finger. “Can she have her jewel back? I picked it just for her. I didn’t mean for her to be hurt.” It wasn’t quite an admission of guilt, and indeed, no one could accuse him of being at fault save himself, but Rhaenyra could see that it already weighed heavy on the boy.

Rhaenyra held out her hand, and he obediently placed the sapphire in her palm. “Not only may she keep it, but I shall have it placed in a setting, so that she might carry it easier.”

That sounded perfectly agreeable to Aemond, and he nodded. “Very well. Then I shall look after Aelinor.” He did not say because you cannot, but the thought was in his mind. He had trusted Aelinor to the care of her mother and brothers, and now she was hurt. It would never have happened on his watch. He wouldn’t have allowed it.

“May I ask one more favor of you, Ameond?” 

He gave a slight nod.

Rhaenyra took a deep breath, as if debating whether or not to speak. “Please don’t call my boys bastards. It cuts deeper than you know.”

Aemond did not agree, or disagree, he simply cast one last longing glance at Aelinor’s door,and then left the room, determined to return in the morning with an armful of sweets for his princess.

Years later, Rhaenyra would wonder if that was the first day the lines were drawn between their families. When she inadvertently handed Aemond Targaryen the words with which to wound her own children. But at the time, she knew only that he cared deeply for her daughter, and she hoped and prayed that it would be enough to preserve this tender peace.

[bitethedevil]

The Virtue of Chastity (Chapter 2/2)

Tags: Corruption, Dark!Raphael, Dub-Con, Nun gets corrupted by devil-trope

TW: Dubious Consent, Depictions of Illness, Death, NSFW Content, Mention of Thoughts of Suicide

AO3 LINK

(Chapter 1)

Summary:

A cleric of Ilmater is mourning the loss of someone dear to her. Lucian, an earlier patient of hers who she loved dearly, had died from his illness, but not before revealing that he had sold his soul to a devil. Destroyed by the knowledge she cannot save him from his suffering in the afterlife, she runs into a strange man by the name Raphael. He says he can fix it all and bring her the soul of her dear Lucian.

He is also oddly fascinated by the fact that she has sworn a Vow of Chastity, and he seems to know an awful lot about her and her relationship with Lucian.

AN: He's such a fucking asshole.

She went back about a week later. Of course she did. Even if there were many unanswered questions, even if he was bluffing with his offer, she still needed to try. She could grant Lucian peace if he really did uphold his word. She had to try. Besides, Father Marcus was over the moon with how much gold Raphael had donated to the temple. She had no choice but to keep playing along.

When she arrived at the mansion, she was led to his chambers once again. This time he was laying in his bed when she entered. He was wearing a robe, and he was under the covers of the bed. He smiled when she entered.

“Chastity,” he greeted. “What a pleasant surprise to see you return so soon.”

There was something about his tone that suggested that he knew she would be back today, but she pushed it aside. She still felt somewhat embarrassed about crying her eyes out on his lap the last time, but she tried to remain professional. She put her bag of supplies on a chair and rummaged through it.

“I have more potions to bring you,” she said.

“Lovely,” he purred, watching her. “The last ones you made worked a charm.”

She pulled out the potions and placed them neatly on the desk. She took one of them and went to his bedside to hand it to him. He took it and placed it on his bedside table.

“I will save it for later,” he said with a smile. “I just took one this morning.”

She nodded and looked him over.

“How is the pain?” she asked.

“My legs are still aching,” he said. “Though because of you, it is now bearable. You have my sincerest thanks. How have you been?”

“Good,” she answered quickly and politely before changing the subject to the problem at hand. “Can I take a look?”

He smiled and gestured to his legs. She pulled the cover aside to reveal his bare leg under it. She adjusted his robe slightly. She was not sure he was wearing anything underneath it, and she was not exactly eager to find out. She went through the same procedure as last time, starting with feeling for anything odd in his lower calves and going from there.

“Do be careful with your back,” he said, looking at how she was hunched over the bed. “You can sit on the bed. I won’t bite.”

She glanced up at him before sitting down on the side of the bed. Just like last time she did not feel anything unusual. He was not swollen anywhere or had any knots. She moved up to his knees. She could see that he was watching her from the corner of her eye.

“I trust that my humble donations pleased Father Marcus?” Raphael said.

“Oh absolutely,” she said and smiled. “You have been a great help. We are very thankful, Raphael.”

He smiled, though it was not exactly a friendly smile.

“The feeling is mutual,” he purred. “You are very helpful and exceedingly kind to me. Are you this kind to everyone, I wonder?”

She moved her hands up to his thighs, careful with her touch. He groaned as she did.

“I try to serve the people who come to our temple the best I can,” she answered with a smile.

She moved to the leg furthest away from her.

“Your posture is atrocious, dear,” he said and patted the mattress. “Don’t be shy.”

She hesitated but again, she did not want to displease him. She crawled up on the bed and straddled his leg. She was careful not to actually sit on it, as she moved from his calf and up. When she got to his thigh, he suddenly pressed his leg up against her, making her lose her balance in an attempt to not cause him pain. She almost fell forward face first down onto his chest. He held her there as he groaned.

“A cramp,” he explained and groaned. “Apologies. It will pass in a moment.”

His leg was pressed up between hers and she immediately got flustered at the feeling. Though his face was contorted in pain, she could see a sense of satisfaction in those brown eyes of his. She had a slight suspicion, but now it was almost confirmed: he was faking it. She tried to move off him, but his grip around her only tightened.

“Oh dear, am I making you uncomfortable?” he asked and looked down to where his thigh was grinding up against her. “Here.”

He wrapped his hand around her thigh and moved it over the other leg as he pulled her to straddle his lap instead. She immediately knew what was going on and tried to pull herself away again.

“You are not sick,” she said through gritted teeth, trying to yank herself away from his iron grip. “Let me go!”

“Brava! It took you much longer to come to that conclusion than I expected,” he said with a smile and ground his hips up against her. “You are correct, of course. I am not sick. However, your friend is still very much dead and in my possession, so I would suggest that you keep up your end of the agreement if you want his soul.”

Her breath involuntarily hitched when he pressed himself up against her. She put all her strength in to get off him.

“I took a vow,” she hissed at him. “I won’t break that for you.”

“Oh, my sweet, perish the thought!” he said with a smile. “Call this a…trial of sorts. To test your devotion. You pious types seem to love those. I would never take you against your will, I am not a monster…Though you will be begging me to by the end of this. I don’t care if you win or lose, I will give you his soul regardless. You can agree or I can simply let you walk back to that temple of yours, while that boy you loved suffers in the Hells. What will it be?”

She stopped struggling. This was not fair. Raphael smiled.

“Good girl,” he said and flipped her over so that he was on top of her. “I will give you a gentle start. Have you ever been kissed before?”

She shook her head and swallowed hard.

“I thought so,” he purred and leaned down to press his lips against her.

Her body was already betraying her. She felt hot all over and her stomach was in knots at the gesture. His tongue forced its way into her mouth, tasting and exploring every corner of it. He hummed in satisfaction and bit her lip. He kissed his way over her cheek to her ear.

“Would you be a dear and untie my robe?” he whispered in her ear before nibbling on her earlobe and kissing his way down her neck.

Her hands were shaking but she did as he told her. His trail of kisses ended just above her chest. His hand moved to untie her robes, and she opened her mouth to protest. He silenced her with a finger to her lips.

“We are not breaking any of your little rules,” he said and kept working at opening her robe. “I simply want to have a look.”

He opened her robe and pushed the fabric to either side, so she laid exposed to him. Her chest laid bare, and she was only wearing panties underneath. He kissed his way down between her breasts and stopped at her lower belly before leaning over her again, so they were face to face. He pressed his hips against her.

“Beautiful,” he purred.

He nibbled at her neck as he slowly began grinding his cock against her clothed sex. Her whole body was tense, which seemed to amuse him. He smirked against her skin and pressed it harder against her.

“This must all be very foreign to you,” he said and took her hand. “It won’t hurt you, my sweet. Not unless you want it to.”

He led her hand to his cock. It was rock hard. He bent her fingers to grasp around it. She began praying in her mind to distance herself from this whole situation. Raphael’s other hand came up to grab her cheeks and force her to look at him.

“Do you feel how much I want you?” he asked with a groan as he used her hand to stroke himself with.

He let go of her hand and moved it to feel her through her panties. She gasped and grabbed his hand to stop. He did not move an inch.

“It hardly counts when a piece of fabric separates us, no?” he said and continued his teasing touch. “You are soaked, my dear. You want me too.”

She shook her head which only made him laugh. He kept running his fingers over her. It was the most delicious feeling she had ever felt. After a moment he shifted his position and positioned his cock up against her folds. He rubbed it up and down her slit over the soaked fabric of her panties, teasing her with the head of his cock. He teased her even more when he pressed it slightly against her entrance, making her shiver and moan.

“Do you want more?” he asked and pressed his cock hard against her clothed entrance, the head of it peeking inside.

She shook her head again, though the way she was moaning did not make it seem convincing.

“Come now,” he cooed. “No one will have to know. It will be our little secret, Chastity.”

The way he purred her name did things to her. The way he said it as if it was a joke and he knew exactly how much she wanted to break her vows in that moment. He slid the panties off her and rested his cock between her folds. The skin-to-skin contact almost made her see stars.

“I know you want to,” he purred and ground himself against her slowly, making her moan. Her mind went blank, and she found herself nodding. “Good girl.”

He sank into her slowly with a deep groan. It hurt at first, but soon it turned into absolute bliss. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew what she was doing was wrong and that she would regret it for the rest of her life after, but somehow that only made it feel even better in the moment.

“Not…” she managed to plead in between moans. “Not inside, please…”

If she became pregnant, her life would be over. She would be excommunicated from the temple if that happened. Raphael smiled down at her as he fucked her with languid thrusts.

“Of course…” he purred in an almost mocking tone. “Wouldn’t want any unwanted surprises, would we?”

He bottomed out inside her and leaned down to kiss her. It was a greedy kiss, and his tongue slipped into her mouth once again to explore while he lazily thrusted into her. It felt like the Heavens. She was in pure bliss. Her eyes fluttered shut. He bit her bottom lip and trailed down to her throat.

“Speaking of surprises,” he purred against her skin. “I believe it is time that you and I were properly introduced, wouldn’t you say?”

His words confused her, but in her ecstasy, she barely cared about what he was saying. It wasn’t until she felt a flash of heat against her skin, followed by feeling all too full that her eyes shot open. Her blood ran cold when she saw the smirking cambion that was looking down at her. She grasped at the sheets and mattress, trying to pull herself away from him immediately.

He flipped her over with ease and pushed her face down into the mattress, capturing her arms and holding them behind her back as his now uncomfortably large length pushed into her again from behind. He groaned as he bottomed out. It was painful.

“Do you want to know what your dear Lucian wanted in exchange for his soul?” Raphael asked while he thrusted lazily into her. “He wanted to spend the rest of his life with you. Isn’t that sweet?”

He gave a particularly hard thrust, that almost pushed the air out of her. She wanted to scream and cry but she simply felt numb instead.

“Of course, that was difficult for me to achieve with such a stubborn and busy little thing like you,” Raphael said. “Though I do believe making his condition deadly did the trick, wouldn’t you say? And now, with your helpful collaboration, he will spend his afterlife with you as well. A love story for the ages…”

She felt his claws on her scalp before he yanked her head back and fucked her faster. He leaned over her and licked a stripe up her back before biting down into her shoulder. She whined in pain.

“Oh, if only he could see you now, Chastity,” he purred into her ear. “If only he knew that all it took for you to leave your principles, was a couple of honeyed words and a few promises. He might have still been here, if he did.”

He flipped her over again so she was laying on her back, so he could bask in the view of her tearful expression. He smiled down at her. He moved his hand to rub her clit as he kept thrusting into her. Her body was betraying her again and she felt the pain turning into pleasure, despite herself. She came soon after.

Raphael pulled out like he promised and came on her stomach. His seed was inhumanly hot when it hit her skin. In one last show of humiliation, he dipped two of his clawed fingers in the mess he had made on her and lifted them to her lips and pressed them inside.

He didn’t even have to say anything. He knew that she would not disobey him now that she had gotten so far, so she licked them clean. Sulphur, she realized at the taste. Sulphur had been that unidentifiable smell that first day she met him. She should have known much earlier.

He smiled widely at her before his fingers left her mouth. He moved off her and tied his robe again in the most casual manner, as if nothing had just happened between them. He sat on the side of the bed and then looked at her with those orange eyes of his.

“You have done so well, my sweet,” he said.

The soul coin appeared in the palm of his hand in a flash of fire after he snapped his fingers. He held it out to her, but when she reached out to take it, he snatched it away from her.

“How forgetful of me,” he said, and his smile widened. “There is, of course, one last thing. A mere trifle, really.”

He snapped his fingers and a contract, and a quill appeared, floating in the air. Her blood ran cold, and she looked from the contract to him.

“This was not what we agreed on,” she said in a shaky tone. “You didn’t say—”

“I said,” he interrupted with a raised finger. “That I would give you his soul in exchange for your obedience to me. I am now asking you to sign. It will be my final request from you. You did not honestly believe that all I wanted was to sleep with you?”

He burst into a mocking laughter as he looked at her expression.

“Oh, sweet girl,” he said with a cruel smile. “I almost feel sorry for you.”

He waved his hand, and the contract moved closer to her. She held back tears as she read it. She would give her soul for Lucian’s. Her eternal suffering for his peace. She had once vowed to remove suffering when she saw it. If she didn’t sign if would all have been for nothing, and she had already broken enough vows for a lifetime. She sobbed softly when she reached for the quill and signed.

The contract burst into flames and disappeared. Raphael reached out to gently dry the tears that were steadily falling down her cheeks, with an almost pitying expression. He placed the soul coin in her hands, and she looked down at it. She felt Lucian’s presence through it, and it was the only thing that soothed her in that moment.

“Cheer up, dear,” Raphael purred with a smile. “You might not go to Ilmater when you one day leave this plane, but you have served him better than any of his worshippers. Though you have broken one little vow, you have made the ultimate sacrifice to alleviate suffering. This way you will have served your god well and you will be free of his cruel demands once your time is up.”

She wiped her tears in her sleeve.

“Once I have your soul, you will never have to worry about foolish ideas such as these restrictions ever again,” he said in a gentle voice that belied his words. “You will be free to give into your desires…As long as they serve me, of course. If you are really good, I might even let Lucian join or watch when I’ll indulge in you, once you are mine.”

Her blood ran cold once again. She did not understand…

Raphael smiled.

“You didn’t think I would separate you two in death, did you?” he said. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of true love.”

She couldn’t breathe all of a sudden. No. That couldn’t be.

“No, I—” she said frantically. “The contract—”

“Oh, did I not mention?” he asked with a smile. “You own Lucian’s soul, and I own yours. When it comes to souls, the assets of the deceased go to the next in the hierarchy, which for you, is me. Infernal laws, you see. Unfortunately, as you are of infernal heritage, those laws apply to you too.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then she screamed until it physically hurt her, and then she kept screaming. Never had she been so angry at herself. Never had she felt such hopelessness. Never had she wanted to end it all so badly. But there was nowhere to go or to escape to. All roads now led to Raphael. She was suffering and her god could no longer help her.

He was basking in her misery, eating it up as if it was the most delicious meal he had ever had. When she finally fell quiet, she felt like an empty shell of herself. She looked hopelessly down at the soul coin in her hands as she whimpered quietly.

Raphael snapped his fingers and returned to his human form. He got up from the bed and towered over her. She kept staring emptily at the coin. He chuckled lowly and adjusted her open robe, as if to mockingly protect her modesty.

“A pleasure doing business with you, Chastity.”

He disappeared in a flash of smoke and embers.

[b00kdiary]

Dreamer | Rhysand

Rhysand x Reader

Rhysand begrudgingly goes to Hewn City to secure a marriage pact that will indefinitely bond the two Courts together- but the fine ladies of the Court of Nightmares are not what he wants or needs. Instead, he discovers Lady Y/N, and she has no qualms about telling him how he has failed this City and her. This is more than just coincidence, it’s fate.

Warnings: long chapters, mature content (18 +) swearing, eventual smut.

MASTERLIST - 1 and 2

"High Lord, Rhysand of the Night Court."

I reach the top of the dais as my name is announced, my footsteps echoing against the polished floor and the sound bounces through the room, through the tense silence. No one speaks, they barely breathe, as I slowly turn, my face a sheet of ice as I settle onto my throne.

I let a nonchalant smile tug at my lips, the dark mask of a tyrant slipping into place as I eye the endless room before me. A macabre and dreary setting with its ebony walls and onyx ceiling, the beasts carved into the cavernous stone a mirror to the type of Fae who lived in this City.

I emulate the darkness as I lean back, my long legs spreading apart and my fingers curling into the engraved snake form that curves around the throne, the head peering out over my shoulder, my own personal monster.

I cock my head at the dozens of males before me, Council Members, my violet eyes twinkling in amusement as they all remained bowed, knees pressed to the floor, heads lowered and waiting for my word.

"You may rise," I drawl, my tone the picture of boredom, and as Kier and his peers rise to their feet, I see the apprehension and distaste on their faces for me, for my inner circle. Kier observes me, his brown eyes flickering at the prolonged silence. "Kier?"

"As usual, it is an honour to have you here, High Lord," Kier inclines his head, scurrying forward as he speaks, his own mask of reverence slipping into place as he stops before me. "As the steward of Hewn City, I am delighted by your decision to unite our two Courts through marriage, as are the Council present here today."

I see the way my Court stiffens, Mor, Cassian and Azriel all flanked at the bottom of the dais seem to go unnaturally still, the stones in their eyes wholly- unable to hide their disapproval of this whole arrangement.

"We all have our duties, Kier, the Court must always come first," My lips tilt in a mocking smile, and Kier shrivels under the tendrils of dark power that dance around me, an omnipresent threat so at odds with my amused gaze, "My marriage to a Lady of Hewn City will be a victory for us all."

Marriage.

The word tastes like poison on my tongue, any hopes and dreams I had once harboured turning to ash in my mouth at the cold reality I was faced with. To marry a female, I didn't know or love, to mate with her and sire a child, and secure an alliance with the Court of Nightmares indefinitely.

Heavy is the head that bears the crown indeed.

"It will be an alliance venerated for generations to come, I'm sure," Kier smiles, an ugly, wretched sight and I saw Mor shiver in my peripheral, an imperceptible movement, a conditioned reaction to her father. "High Lord, may I introduce to you the fine ladies selected by the Council."

I brace myself, masking my dread with an entertained smirk, drawing on the worst parts of myself, the worst parts of this place to hide the male that roared in warning to me inside. A click of doors opening at my left, and then several soft footsteps echoing into the chamber.

I stare, unyielding and silent, as several young women stride into the room, their heads bowed and back straight, adorned with fine clothes and finer jewellery as they stop at the foot of the dais before me.

They were fine, lovely even, tall, and thin, typical of High Fae female beauty and yet, despite their soft smiles and delicate frames, I frown.

"You can't be serious, even you wouldn't be this cruel," Mor releases a horrified, tight breath and both Cassian and Azriel step forward in unison, an impenetrable wall, as Kier's eyes turn to Mor and his lip curls. "These 'fine ladies' are girls, children, how old are they?"

The room shifted at her sharp words, Kier tensing at the accusation and the males of the Council muttering amongst themselves, their eyes burning as they glared at my cousin- at her supposed insolence for speaking out of turn.

"Their age is of little significance, girl," Kier sneers, that simpering fool mask he wore melting into revulsion and anger as he took in his outcasted daughter. My fingers curled around the throne under me as he spoke, that pit of darkness inside me churning. "They have all had their first bleed-"

"Cauldron," Cassian swore, his dark hair shifting as he moved his gaze over to those girls, and I saw his throat bob at the sight- so young, broken, pawns moved and used in a game of power.

"You're disgusting," Mor hissed, and I heard the pain clawing at her throat, her face pulled into a devastated frown as she took in those girls- and it was as if she were looking into a mirror, to the girl she had once been. "These girls are not chattel; you cannot sell their innocence for your own gain-"

"These ladies are being honoured, girl, an honour that you will never understand," Kier snarled, his emphasis on honour so clear, an indirect assault on Mor's character, on the choice she made to free herself. "To marry the High Lord is a privilege, one these ladies are eager for-"

Azriel's shadows thrum around him, restless, wild, and I knew his control was wearing thin the longer Kier spoke, the longer those girls stood before us, trembling under the burden on their shoulders.

"Enough." One word, low and sinister, and every mouth in the room closed, every Fae in the room turned utterly still at the command.

I grit my teeth, letting the furious power within me radiate into the room, let it dance through the air, brush against my subjects, let them feel the warning, the threat, that I was. I smile as their faces pale, flinching back from the vile magic, a reminder that I could destroy them without even lifting a hand.

"Kier, I am going to choose to believe that this decision was made out of sheer stupidity rather than insolence," My voice is a calm storm, but my eyes- they rage with a current of violence and death, the kind that made males twice my age blanche- and they do. "I will choose to believe that you did not invite me here to waste my time- you wouldn't dare be so foolish, would you Kier?"

I shifted forward in my seat, my eyes narrowing down at the male, and it took all the restraint in me not to shatter every bone in his body, to not pluck his eyes from his head and tear his tongue from his mouth- and he sees that desire to inflict pain upon him in my gaze.

"Never, High Lord, I would not dream of-" Kier barely contains his stuttering words, a mixture of fear, indignation and humiliation lacing through his widening gaze, but like the worm he was, he bowed his head to me in remorse. "It was a grave misjudgement, one that will not be repeated again."

"Good- I desire to sire a child, Kier, not marry one," I sneer, my disgust prevalent across every hard inch of my face as I turn from Kier, moving my eyes across every last council member, "Just as I am sure you all agree, these girls have many more years left to enjoy their youth, yes?"

I make the threat clear in my words, make them clear in my eyes- touch these girls and die.

None oppose me, their hearts hammering in their chests as they nod their head in agreement, subservient and controlled- and a small kernel of satisfaction fills me, that they felt a fraction of what the girls before me did.

"Kier, join me in the Council Room," I stand from my chaise, and as if it were muscle memory, every single person in the room falls to a knee and drops their heads as I descend the stairs. "Let us discuss the consequences you'll all face should you disappoint me again."

***

"Y/N, a union between the High Lord and a Lady of Hewn City is exactly the chance we've been waiting for," Cassandra pestered, her wide eyes pleading with me, but I ignored her again, choosing to instead clean the Council Room for the next meeting with haste. "It's a chance for change."

"Who are you trying to convince, Cassie- me or yourself?" I mutter, raising a dark brow at her as I tuck in the oak chairs, shoving them into place harder than was needed. "This marriage is a farce, and you're deluding yourself by thinking otherwise."

Cassie groans, the sound reverberating through the empty room, and I try to not laugh at her as she rushes around the endless table, her sea-blue eyes rolling as she stops beside me.

"Why must you be such a pessimist?" Cassie demands, her cold, slim fingers ripping the papers from my hand and slamming them onto the table before me. "With a lady from our Court married to the High Lord, we can finally hope, we will have someone on our side- to help us, to fix this Cauldron-forsaken City-"

"And who would that be?" I scoff out a laugh, a bitter, hollow sound as I turn my hard gaze to her, strands of my loose hair brushing my hot cheeks as I move, "Thanatos's daughter despises the Court of Dreams, Kier's nieces care more about fine jewels and clothes than people, and the other daughters are afraid of their own shadows, they would shit themselves at the sight of the High Lord and his inner circle."

Cassie purses her lips at my harsh words, and I frown, sighing deeply at the look of dejection on her lovely face, hating myself for snuffing out the light that had filled her eyes. But it had to be done- some people were not meant to dream.

"I'm sorry, Cassie, I know you wish it were otherwise, I do too," I force back the lump in my throat as I turn from her, hating the way my lip trembled and my hands felt weak, "But this marriage will benefit nobody but the High Lord, his court, and the males of the Council- that's it. They have never and will never care, there is no one on our side but us."

Silence fills the room at my hoarse dead words, and the reality of them, the reality that we were truly and irrevocably stuck in this life, in this cycle of hell made my eyes burn.

"It saddens me that you feel that way, My Lady," A deep, velvety voice rasped from behind me, and the air went taut at the unfathomable power that penetrated the room.

Cassandra gasped, something spilling from her hand and dropping to the floor with a deafening crunch. My stomach twists into knots as I brace myself, all the blood leeching from my face as I turn- to where the High Lord stood, his inner circle and Kier watching on either side.

"High Lord," Cassie choked on the title, choked on her fear and before the male before us could speak, she stumbled down to a knee, her head bowed and her golden hair falling forward to shield the terror on her face.

I couldn't move, not even as the voice inside me screamed and begged for me to bow, to submit myself to him- for I had heard stories of Rhysand.

Of his abilities as a Daemati, able to shatter a person's mind without lifting a hand, of his ruthlessness as High Lord, reducing people to ash with a smile on his lovely face, of all the horrific things he had done in his five hundred years of existence.

And it seemed he saw it on my face, perhaps even saw it in my mind, the nightmares and tales, the horrors spread about him in the City, about the kind of male he was.

His violet gaze narrowed, the constellations in them beaming as he stared at me, as he cocked his head, his lips pursed into a thin line- as if observing me. I shook under the silent act, the unyielding hold he had over me, as well as the gazes of his court at his side.

"Y/N!" Cassie hissed under her breath, her head turning and her silver-lined eyes meeting mine, tears sullying the usually tranquil blue as she pleaded with me to move, to bow.

"Insolent girl," Kier spat, his gaze hard as he glared at me and the breath caught in my lungs as a dark eclipse of magic shot from him, striking against my stomach, hard enough that I lurched forward in pain and then another hit a second later, slamming into my jaw. "Bow before your High Lord."

I groaned as I fell to a knee, the impact of the bone against the polished floor striking through my whole leg and up my body, but that was nothing compared to the throb that burned through my stomach and the cut at my lip, the taste of metal filling my mouth.

I heard a gasp, a feminine sound of surprise and concern from above me as I leaned forward, my eyes pinched shut and every breath feeling like glass in my lungs as I tried to compose myself- forcing down the pain in my jaw, in my stomach, in my heart.

I heard footsteps and then the room went still, as if a blanket of ice had fallen over us.

"High Lord, she-she was being impudent-" Begging and broken words, riddled with fear and my eyes shot open at the sound of a sickening crunch, an agonised scream following it, and the aura of death filling the space.

"No, you are impudent, Kier," That voice again, but now it sounded different- the kind of mercilessness that could haunt a person's nightmares, that could be found in the darkest hollows of hell. "You do not touch her, or any other female, ever."

Another crunch and I recognise the sound now, it was bones splintering, tendons tearing, blood gushing and Kier cried out again, a horrible, strangled sound.

"Leave," The High Lord breathed the command, and I felt the floor shake under his restraint like he was funnelling his power down into the ground as an anchor. "and do not heal that hand, I want you to remember my words today, Kier."

I keep my head low, staring at the floor, unable to look up as footsteps bound away, fast and stumbling and I cringe at the sight of blood leaking against the floor, a trail following after Kier as he exits the room.

And despite the tendrils of pain still wrecking through me- I internally groaned at the thought of having to clean the blood up.

An amazed huff of air left the High Lord, it sounded almost like a laugh, but I didn't dare raise my head. Not even as he slowly sauntered over, his footsteps deliberate and slow, I didn't even look up when that trail of blood vanished, magicked away, leaving behind not even a stain in memory.

He stopped before me, and my heart thrummed so loud I knew they could all hear it.

"My Lady," Rhysand murmured, his voice soft now, like a caress of wind against my skin. I swallow down the bitter taste in my mouth, my eyes fluttering as I lift my head- to see the hand he had reaching down for me. "Please, rise."

I blink at the outreached hand, heat filling my cheeks at Rhysand's tender gaze, any whisper of violence or darkness gone, replaced by something so much sweeter. I gnaw on my cheek, my hand sweating and shaking as I reach forward, gently placing my palm in his.

The second our hands connect, something charges through me, bright and sharp and strong and for a second Rhysand's eyes widen, just for a second, but then he blinks and it's gone- as if I had imagined it.

"Thank you, High Lord," I breathe and his fingers curl firmly around my palm as I wince, my knees shaking and knocking as I rise to my feet. He whispers something gently under his breath, his head glancing sideways, and I sigh when Cassandra rises too, her slender frame curling back as she stands.

I crane my neck to meet Rhysand's eyes, and upon seeing my face, seeing the cut leaking blood at my lip, his expression hardens. He still hadn't let go of my hand, his large, ringed fingers still gripping around me like a vice, calming the trembling shakes that ran through me.

"I apologise for Kier's actions," Rhysand sighed, his dark lashes fluttering as he slowly slipped his hand from mine, moving to the pocket of his jacket, his fingers pulling free the cloth there. My hand felt cold as it fell back to my side, but as Rhysand lifted the cloth between his fingers, my head hazed.

I didn't breathe, couldn't, as Rhysand gently brushed the soft cloth against the cut at my lip, soaking the material with blood and being so careful that I didn't even feel the pain stinging at the touch. I feel the surprised stare of Cassie at my side, of his family at his back, but nothing deterred Rhysand.

"I should be the one to apologise, High Lord," I stutter, finally feeling like I can breathe as he pulls his hand away, and I blink away the fog, clearing my throat as I step back, as I let the bubble, he created around us pop. "I spoke out of turn, and I should have bowed-"

"You don't need to apologise for your honesty or anything else," He shook his head, the soft waves of his blue-black hair shifting with the movement, and I forced myself to not stare at every inch of his handsome face. "I don't punish Ladies for words spoken in earnest between friends."

I nod, uncertainty and weariness shining in my gaze as I take in his intense half-smile, a smile that seems to brighten when I glance at Cassandra, looking equally as confused as me, and I shrug weakly.

"Though I will admit I am rather taken aback by your words, Lady Y/N," I shiver at the sound of my name on his silver tongue, at the way he cocked his head down at me, a purely predatory move, as he spoke. "I would like to hear more of your thoughts on the matter."

Hear my thoughts?

I go still at his easy words, at the question rather than a command, and Cassie releases a puff of air- like there wasn't enough oxygen in the room to placate her aching lungs.

"What?" I croak and then wince at the insolence behind my words, a habit that I couldn't shake in front of the High Lord. I pinch my eyes shut at the way his lip quirks, and my embarrassment is worsened by the small chuckle that General Cassian huffs out. "I mean- I'm not sure that's-"

"Now, now- don't go all shy on me, My Lady," Rhysand purred, nonchalance highlighted in every inch of his muscled form as he tucked the cloth back into his pocket and grinned at me, like a lion before devouring a lamb. "I think we're past the point of formalities, yes?"

***

"There is no one on our side but us."

The words were so hollow and defeated, the type of ruined that spoke of no hopes, dreams, or future, just nothing. And it was hard to explain what I felt at the words, like a sharp pain as if she had reached into my chest and torn out my heart with her bare hand.

She said that they have never and will never care- 'they' being me, my court, the people around me now and the ones left behind in my City of Starlight.

Sincere words, loaded words, spoken by a female behind closed doors, in confidence to her friend- and yet, I had overheard.

I wasn't sure what to expect when stepping into this room and wasn't sure what kind of female I would be confronted with. I had anticipated a female full of loathing and darkness, a kind of anger that would burn in her eyes, that could be seen through every breath she took, in every inch of her skin as she moved.

And yet, as I stared at the girl before me, I was met with the exact opposite.

The other lady, Cassandra, had become a shaking mess the second her blue eyes laid upon me, her breaths gasping from her as if every one would be the last. She was terrified because that was all she knew in this city; it was all she knew of me.

But Lady Y/N was different- she was frightened by me, yes, I saw it in her doe-like eyes, saw it in the memories that flashed through her mind of me, the tales of my cruelty and brutality, the blood that stained my hands and the darkness that tainted my heart.

But she didn't look away, as if she couldn't.

Here she was faced with a monster that mothers warned their children about, yet she stared at me as if she saw me- and was as beguiled by me as I was by her.

"Now, now- don't go all shy on me, My Lady," I smile, the tightness in my chest easing as a stain tints her plump cheeks, and her chocolate eyes widen, "I think we're past the point of formalities, yes?"

Her friend swallows, audible and thick, as if struggling to get down air and Azriel shifts on his feet, his brow furrowed as if concerned the girl might collapse. Y/N glances at her, and amusement fills me at the small, confused shrug she gives her.

"You won't uh-" She clears her throat, her hand coming up to brush a stray strand of hair from her face, and I watch every single movement as she tucks the silken strand over a perfectly arched ear, revealing the smooth column of her neck. "You won't turn me to dust, right?"

I snort, a short and amazed sound, and she gnaws on her lip, avoiding the cut there and I have to begrudgingly tear my gaze away when my court steps forward, my brothers half-smiling and Mor looking at Y/N as if she was as charmed by her as I was.

"No, no, Lady Y/N," My mask slips and slips until it's completely gone, and I'm glad that Kier left, glad that none but her saw me like this because it felt freeing, to be in this Cauldron-forsaken place and be able to genuinely smile. "No one will be turned to dust, on my honour as High Lord."

"Please do tell us," Mor steps forward, a small smile on her red-pained lips and Y/N's breath hitches at the eyes on her, at the attention. "Contrary to what you may think, we do care."

Y/N considers, and I can hear her heart hammering in her chest, fast and loud and endless, but despite that she lifts her chin and something raw runs through me at the look in her eyes- the bravery.

"I- I think that Hewn City is a cesspit, full of the worst kind of Fae and every amoral despicable thing a person could do happens here," She breathes, and her soft body trembles with the exhale, as if speaking these words aloud were exactly the catharsis she needed. "And to be honest, I blame you for that."

Surprise- it fills me and every single other person in the room.

"Y/N!" Cassandra gasps, and her eyes seem to widen further, impossibly big, latching onto me and full of pleading, "She doesn't mean that- she must be more delirious than anticipated from the-"

"Cassie, please," Y/N scoffs, a hollow and low sound, and the tension in the air goes thick as they glance at each other. "Someone needs to say it, it might as well be me."

I fold my arms across my chest, my lips pursing as they stare at each other, some internal telepathic conflict waging between them, in their eyes and despite my abilities, despite the fact, that it would be so easy for me to slip into their minds and wade through all their thoughts, I don't.

I glanced back at my Court, who stood just behind me, and their faces were contemplative too- not angry, nor offended, but shocked- here was this girl, no older than twenty, with eyes as soft as a doe's, telling us exactly how we have failed.

"Please, continue," I nod, and I hope my eyes are encouraging, because even if I do not wish to hear her words, she was right, they needed to be said and I needed to hear them.

"For centuries, the Court of Nightmares and the Court of Dreams have been segregated and somehow we've fallen into two categories: good and bad," She swallows, and something aches in my chest at the sorrow on her lovely face, the burden, "But no one is born bad, people aren't inherently evil but growing up in a place like this? What else is there but the horrors we see and endure, what else are we destined to become?"

Another shaky inhale, a more broken exhale, and my magic burn inside me as if every desperate breath from her is like a call and my body is begging in answer.

"Your court has washed their hands of us, all of us because it was easier to believe that we were all damned than to try to help- the small minority have ruined the majority," Silver lines her hardening gaze, and I feel us all, every single one of us, go tense at the single tear that trickled down her cheek.

I hear a strangled sound come from behind me and my burning gaze glances back- to Mor, tears brimming her eyes and her lips trembling, watching the girl before us, and feeling every single atom of hurt as if it were her own.

"Morrigan was lucky enough to escape this City, these people because she had you- but do you truly think that she is the only good person born here, that in all these years, she is the only one worthy of salvation?"

More tears leak down Mor's face and Y/N's, endless, eternal, years of suffering in one single moment and I feel the guilt of my actions barrel down at me, a truth that I have spent years avoiding coming to light, like a thunderbolt to the heart.

I let my magic hold me down, let it root me in my spot- because those tears on her cheeks are tormenting me, ruining me, and it takes everything in me not to reach out and brush them away.

"So, forgive me if I have no hope left, that died in me, in all of us, long ago," Y/N clears her throat, her chest rising and falling in powerful waves and my throat is as dry as sand as she wipes the tears from her cheeks, "I- I think we could have all been dreamers- if only you had given us the chance."

In five hundred years, the mask I wore never slipped, never faltered, never was hard to wear- until right now. Right now, as my gaze locked with her, as I saw all the horrors she endured, because of my neglect, I couldn't even find that mask within me- it was gone.

There's silence, heavy and long and burdensome for what feels like hours as I stare at her, and I don't think I could look away even if I wanted to do and I don't, I don't want to.

Y/N inhales a sharp breath as I stalk towards her and the magic in me dances and whirls and strikes through the air, dark and ominous and wholly powerful. My jaw locks as she grabs out to her friend, Cassandra whimpering as Y/N yanks the girl behind her- a shield, against me.

Brave- so utterly brave. Willing to face off with a male five hundred years her senior and her High Lord, to protect her friend.

A Queen in her own right.

I stop before her, so close that I feel her breasts brush my chest, feel the small trembles that wreck through her body, can smell the lavender and jasmine on her perfect skin. She raises her eyes to me, and I see every ounce of her character, her heart and soul, as she tries to not cower before me.

"How old are you, My Lady?" I mutter, and she shivers under my easy words, her brow furrowing at the non-threat. "And what do you do here, your role?"

"Twenty-one, High Lord." She swallows, her tongue flicking out nervously to wet her lips and my hands clench at the sight, at the moisture on her pink mouth. "My father was Captain of an import chain for the City, I was given the role of Lady-in-waiting as a reward for his work."

I sense the curiosity and shock of my court behind me, the way they imperceptibly inch closer to me, to us, drawn in by my words- by the intention behind them.

"You believe the alliance is a farce, that it wouldn't change anything?" I ask, softer, and my power slips from me, curling around her curved hips and soft thighs, moving through her silken hair and over her sensitive skin- and she shakes her head, unable to speak. "What if I were to find a Lady of Hewn City who shared your sentiments, who desired for change and salvation just as you do- would that make you more inclined to hope?"

Cassandra sucked in a sharp breath, her blue eyes widening- in realisation. And I felt the air tauten, my inner circle going still, knowingly.

But Y/N cocked her head, a youthful move, not seeing what was right in front of her.

"Yes, I think that you marrying a Lady who genuinely cares for this City and its people would be a step in the right direction," She considers, and I can't fight my smile at the tender, sincere, confusion that pinches her lovely face. "Though I seriously doubt you will find any such female here."

"Hm," A lazy grin stretches across my face, bright and sure, drawing from the feeling blooming in my chest, raw and new and terrifying as I stare down at her, "I already have."

"High Lord? I don't understand-" Her words melt into a gasp as my fingers caress her cheek, moving ever so gently against that sore cut at her lip- and satisfaction fills me when her eyes flutter, a breathy sound slipping from her.

"I have already found the perfect Lady to marry," Her face burns as I run my eyes languidly down her figure, across her entire face and body- and she stills as realisation fills her, "All you have to do is say yes, Y/N darling."

________

A/N

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[bupia]

Serendipity: Chapter 3 - Papa Emeritus IV x Fem!Reader

Summary: After the unforgettable kiss from the previous night, anxiety dominated your thoughts as you awaited the eagerly anticipated meeting with Copia the next morning. However, the excitement was tinged with a hint of apprehension, as you could barely predict how he would behave. The warmth of the previous night contrasted dramatically with the coldness and distance of this morning.

Words: 10.485

Available on AO3

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Masterlist | Tag list

Day 3: The Garden.

As you woke up, it was impossible not to dwell on what had transpired the previous night. The taste of wine lingered on your lips, and you could still vividly recall the warmth of his touch, the softness of his lips, and the sensation of his kiss. The memory of Papa Emeritus IV's kiss was etched in your mind, a tantalizing and haunting presence that made it challenging to begin your morning without his image and the events of the night dominating your thoughts.

After rising from your bed, you gravitated toward the window. Would you catch another glimpse of him today? You gazed outside for a few minutes, fully aware that yesterday he passed through the garden around this time. However, to your disappointment, he walked by without stopping, not even casting a glance at your window. A pang of sadness gripped your heart, but you tried to console yourself with the thought that perhaps he was preoccupied or had other responsibilities.

You knew the likely place to find him: the cafeteria. So, you quickly changed out of your nightclothes and selected a more suitable outfit for the day, then ventured out of your room with the intent of meeting him there.

As you traversed the living room, Terzo couldn't help but notice your hurried steps. He cleared his throat to get your attention, sitting on the couch with Andras in his lap while sipping coffee. A small, knowing smirk danced on his lips.

"Did Copia arrive safely at his chambers yesterday?" he inquired.

"Yes, Papa," you replied, turning to face him, hoping to divert your thoughts from the previous night's kiss to avoid any visible signs of embarrassment.

"Bene, molto bene," Terzo said, taking another sip of his coffee. "Are you on your way to meet him?"

You tried to sound nonchalant. "Yes, well, I was thinking about going to the cafeteria again for breakfast with the other ministry members."

Terzo chuckled slyly. "Sì, è interessante. We have a dinner planned for today, just among ourselves, no clergy involvement. Would you like to join us?"

You eagerly agreed, though you tried to temper your enthusiasm. "Yes, of course, Papa. That would be a pleasure. Thank you for the invitation."

"Naturalmente," Terzo replied. "Now, per favore, don't let me keep you here. Vai a goderti la colazione."

You nodded, excusing yourself, and made your way to the front door. With anticipation building, you navigated the corridors almost on autopilot, too lost in thought to pay attention to your surroundings. It felt as though your body was being pulled toward the place where you were sure to find him.

As you reached the door of the cafeteria, your excitement couldn't be contained any longer. Your gaze darted inside, and there he was, seated at a table, staring out of the window with his mug in hand, lost in thought. You bit your lower lip in anticipation and made your way to his table.

"Good morning, Papa," you greeted him, coming to a halt beside his table.

Copia jerked in his seat, and he turned his gaze toward you, although he avoided making direct eye contact, continuing to focus on the window outside. "Buongiorno," he replied in a cold tone.

Your bottom lip trembled, and your jaw clenched. A lump formed in your throat, and a chill ran through your body at his frigid response. Uncertainty weighed heavy in the air as you stood there, unsure of what had changed since the previous night. Copia's distant demeanor was a stark contrast to the intimacy you two had shared, and it left you feeling vulnerable and anxious.

"Is everything all right, Papa?" you ventured, your voice quivering slightly.

Copia finally turned his gaze to meet yours, and for a brief moment, his eyes softened. But it was quickly replaced by an unreadable expression, and he simply shrugged. "Just a bit tired."

You nodded, though it was clear there was more to it. "If you need anything, Papa, don't hesitate to let me know. I'm here for you."

He nodded in acknowledgment, and you took that as your cue to leave him to his thoughts. As you walked away, your heart weighed heavy with uncertainty, still processing the abrupt shift in his behavior and desperately hoping it was just a momentary lapse.

Leaving the cafeteria, your mind was a whirlwind of confusion and self-doubt. Copia's sudden change in demeanor left you questioning everything. Had the kiss been a mistake? Did he regret it? What had you done to make him act so cold and distant? A myriad of thoughts and possibilities raced through your mind.

Tears welled up in your eyes, and honestly, you couldn't blame yourself. You hadn't built up any fairy tale ideas about Copia falling head over heels for you and asking you to stick around forever. You were way past those innocent dreams, and Copia, well, he was in a league of his own, far from any prince charming.

What hurt the most wasn't that he might regret the kiss or didn't share your feelings. It was the way he acted, completely distant and cold. You weren't asking for much, just a little bit of kindness or acknowledgment, and it felt like he couldn't even muster that.

"Hey!"

A voice, tinged with recognition, emanated from your side, and you swiveled your head to find Dewdrop approaching.

"Came to meet Pa..." he started, but his words caught in his throat as he observed the distress etched across your face. He swiftly moved closer, reaching out to grasp your hand. "Who?"

"Who what?"

"Hurt you." Dewdrop's concern was palpable in the grip of his hand and the worry etched in his eyes.

You sighed and shook your head, not wanting to burden him with your troubles. "It's nothing, really," you mumbled, trying to downplay the situation.

He leaned in closer, his expression one of sincere worry. "Don't hide it from me. I can see something's bothering you. Tell me what happened."

"Papa... he..." you began, but your words were cut short as Dewdrop embraced you tightly, enfolding you in a comforting hug.

"I wish I could say I'd kick his ass, but I can't do that to a Papa. So, in my mind, just so you know, I'm mentally kicking his fucking ass," Dewdrop muttered with a hint of anger. "Now, tell me..." His voice softened. "What did he do?"

"He kissed me," you confessed.

"He, what-?" Dewdrop exclaimed, seizing your arms and gently drawing you out of the hug, his eyes locked onto yours with an inquisitive intensity. "And you're upset because of it?"

"No," you replied, your head shaking slowly. "Well, a bit, yes."

"You wanted the kiss, right?" Dewdrop inquired, his eyes searching your face for answers.

"I did," you confirmed, your voice steady.

"So, what's bothering you then?" Dewdrop asked.

"I didn't have any expectations, but I didn't think he'd act so distant today," you admitted with a heavy sigh.

Dewdrop sighed in response, then reached out to gently place a reassuring hand on your head. "Look, why don't you try talking to him? They're having dinner tonight, right? Maybe you should give it a shot."

"What if he ignores me?"

"Then you ignore him," Dewdrop chuckled, pressing his masked face affectionately against your forehead. "Don't overthink it. I've got to run now; I came to fetch him from breakfast for his morning meeting. So, please, don't stress too much. Sometimes, there's more to the story than you know."

With those parting words of wisdom, Dewdrop left you. You couldn't help but consider that something might be going on with him, causing this shift in behavior. Perhaps he was facing personal issues or challenges that were affecting his mood.

You tried to rationalize the situation, reminding yourself that you might not be the problem at all. Copia had been under immense pressure and had been dealing with the weight of his new role as the Papa Emeritus. It was possible that his behavior was influenced by external factors, such as stress, fatigue, or even a migraine.

You decided to let go of the current confusion and give Copia some space. There were still several hours until the planned dinner, and you hoped that by then, he would be in better spirits. You understood that he was going through a challenging time, but it was hard to reconcile the cold demeanor after the kiss.

Back at the Papal Apartment, you spent the day assisting Angèle with taking care of Andras. Your mind was preoccupied with anticipation and uncertainty, as you looked forward to the evening and the chance to see him again, with the hope that things would be different and you could better understand what had happened. Angèle couldn't help but notice your anxious expressions. She frequently inquired if you were alright, concerned for your well-being. However, you found yourself lying, unable to share the true reason behind your unease.

As the hour for the dinner approached, Terzo and his family had already left for the event, leaving you alone in the Papal apartment to prepare. You had chosen a simple yet elegant black tea-length dress with lace detailing and half sleeves, finished with a mandarin collar. A pair of modest block-heel ankle shoes completed your outfit.

You gave yourself one final glance in the mirror, feeling a mixture of excitement and trepidation. The morning's encounter with Copia still weighed on your mind, but you reminded yourself to push those thoughts aside. There was no point in dwelling on it when you didn't even know the cause. You took a deep breath and forced a smile, determined to make the most of the dinner. Maybe Copia would be different, maybe he'd treat you differently, and perhaps he'd even compliment your appearance.

With that hopeful thought in mind, you left your room and made your way to the living room. There, you found Omega seated on the couch. Omega was one of Terzo's ghouls and had a more distant relationship with you compared to Dewdrop, who was closer. Omega had taken on various responsibilities within the ministry following Terzo's departure as the Papa Emeritus. He often handled matters personally requested by Terzo.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, quickly rising from the couch as he noticed your presence. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes, I am," you replied with a warm smile, pleasantly surprised to find Omega here. "I didn't expect you'd be the one accompanying me today."

Omega explained, "Dewdrop and the other Ghouls have already joined Papa Copia's entourage. They accompany him at events like this, and Dewdrop is among them."

"So, you'll be my company for today?" you inquired.

"Precisely."

Omega extended his hand, and you reached out to take it. He placed your hand on his arm, and together, you walked toward the front door, which he courteously opened for you. Stepping outside, he followed you, closing the door behind him.

Curious, you asked, "Where are we going today?"

Omega offered a reassuring smile. "It's not a grand affair, just a dining salon."

"Sounds fancy," you remarked with a touch of excitement.

Omega chuckled, "It's not as fancy as it may seem."

With a hint of insecurity, you admitted, "I've never been to one of these before. Do you think my attire is suitable?"

"I think you look beautiful," Omega reassured you warmly.

You returned the compliment, admiring his appearance. "Well, and you look exceptional. I see you have new clothes, but your mask remains the same."

Omega shrugged, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "I like my old mask. It brings a sense of nostalgia, but I also enjoy my new role within the Clergy."

You nodded, offering his arm a friendly squeeze. As you continued to stroll through the hallways, the conversation flowed naturally, and you were glad to have Omega by your side. Despite not being particularly close, you found him to be a pleasant and comforting presence.

"You know, we haven't seen each other much recently," he started.

"Yes, I figured you were quite busy lately."

"I am, but there's more to it," he confirmed.

Curious, you asked, "What do you mean?"

"I can tell when something's bothering you. I can see it in your eyes," he explained.

You lowered your gaze, and Omega came to a stop, taking a step closer to face you. Gently, he raised your chin and tilted your face to meet his gaze. Behind his mask, his eyes gleamed, and you took a deep breath.

"What happened to you today?" Omega inquired softly.

You hesitated, then replied, "It's nothing, really."

He continued to study your eyes. "If it's nothing, then why do I sense a hint of sadness in your eyes?"

You sighed and finally confessed, "Something happened this morning, and it bothered me. I'm not even sure why."

"It's always okay to talk about it, you know," he said gently. "Sometimes, sharing what's on your mind can make the burden feel lighter."

"It's just... this morning," you began, "Copia, he... acted so distant and cold. It was a complete change from what happened last night."

Omega nodded in acknowledgment. "I see. You had an encounter with him last night?"

"Sort of. Terzo asked me to accompany him to his chambers because Copia appeared rather tipsy from the wine, and then, he kissed me," you confessed, feeling a flush of embarrassment coloring your cheeks. "It took me by surprise, but it was... good"

Omega's lips curled into a sly smile. "Terzo..." he uttered, his voice laced with a hint of displeasure. "So, it was that kiss that ignited your hopes for today?"

You nodded. "A little, and then, this morning, he acted as if nothing had happened. I don't understand what changed, or if I did something wrong."

Omega's reassuring tone was filled with understanding. "People can be complicated, and Copia is no exception. Don't be too hard on yourself. It's possible he's dealing with something on his end that's affecting his behavior."

"Thank you, Omega," you said, giving him a warm smile.

Omega returned your smile warmly and gently linked his arm with yours once more as you continued walking together.

"You don't need to thank me," he reassured you. "I'm honestly surprised that Copia kissed you."

You giggled, still feeling a bit shy about the unexpected kiss. "He did! But, hey, about that, please don't tell anyone, okay? Not even Papa Terzo."

Omega nodded with a knowing expression. "You can be sure I won't share that with anyone. Especially Terzo."

"Thank you," you replied, relieved. "And... why does it surprise you?"

Omega considered your question for a moment before responding. "Copia is a complex individual, and he tends to keep his personal life rather private. To see him take such an initiative and reveal a more intimate side is unusual. In other words, he is shy, or at least he never behaved like his other brothers."

"You're suggesting..."

Omega smiled, his eyes gleaming behind the mask. "I haven't witnessed it myself, so perhaps he did, but I can't say for sure. I've been around for a long time, and I'm quite familiar with Primo, Secondo, and Terzo."

"I see..."

Omega continued with reassuring words. "But trust me, I don't believe Copia would ignore you or act cold without a valid reason. It's not like him, so there's probably something on his mind that's bothering him. I wouldn't worry too much."

You nodded, realizing that perhaps your overthinking had led to unnecessary concern. "You're right, I might be overthinking it."

As you and Omega continued walking to the dinner venue, you were surprised to find that it wasn't very far from the Papal apartment. Omega stopped in front of the door, his gentlemanly demeanor shining through as he reached for the doorknob and held it open for you to pass through. You entered the room, and your eyes instantly met Copia's.

Copia sat in a chair at the head of the table, his attention drawn towards the door as you entered. His initial reaction suggested he was about to rise from his seat, but as he noticed Omega following you and placing his hand on your lower back in a gesture of chivalry, Copia's gaze shifted away from yours.

Omega leaned closer to your ear and whispered, "I'm going back now. Promise me you'll enjoy the dinner."

With a reassuring smile, you turned your face towards Omega and nodded, silently acknowledging the unspoken understanding between you. Omega offered a slight nod in response, and he quietly made his exit. As Omega closed the door behind you, you shifted your attention to the front of the room, taking in the surroundings of the dinner venue.

You took a few steps closer to the table, your attention still fixed on Copia, who appeared to be actively avoiding your gaze. Despite his apparent reluctance to meet your eyes, you couldn't help but continue to watch him. As you approached the table, you came closer to Angèle, who was holding Andras in her arms. The young child was fast asleep, resting peacefully, and his serene slumber provided a stark contrast to the tension that seemed to linger in the room.

As you stayed by Angèle's side, your focus still split between her and the somewhat distant Copia, you felt a hand gently rest on your back. The unexpected touch caused you to startle slightly in surprise. Turning around, you discovered that it was Primo who had approached you.

"Buonasera," Primo greeted with a warm smile. "I just wanted to say you look formidable."

"Good evening, Papa," you replied, returning his compliment with grace. "Thank you very much. You also look quite splendid tonight."

Primo's smile broadened in appreciation of your words. The attention in the room shifted toward the door as it opened, and you joined the others in watching. Secondo entered, followed by an unfamiliar woman, piquing your curiosity as they made their way to the table.

"Buonasera," Secondo greeted the gathering, his voice breaking the silence in the room. "Terzo, don't even start..."

Terzo, who had been on the verge of saying something, grumbled and settled back in his chair, an expression of mild annoyance on his face. Angèle, who was standing behind him, couldn't help but chuckle as she looked down at him. She reached out to gently caress the top of Terzo's head, her touch a soothing gesture.

"I wasn't going to say anything bad," Terzo defended himself, his tone slightly defensive. "I was just going to offer some compliments to Secondo for having the company of his caregiver."

Secondo shot his brother a warning look, clearly not in the mood for jests. He was about to reply, but the woman standing beside him stepped forward, her hand gently resting on his shoulder.

"Oh, Terzo," she began with a chuckle. "Just because you've found one for yourself doesn't mean Secondo has to follow suit."

Secondo couldn't help but join in the laughter, wrapping his arm around the woman's waist and lowering his face to plant a tender kiss on her cheek. "Oh, Marga, amore mio..." he murmured, nuzzling her cheek affectionately. "You truly are an extraordinary wife."

Terzo couldn't resist seizing the opportunity to tease his brother and the woman. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he playfully addressed the woman. "Ah, Margareta, la mia cara cognata," he began, a sly smile playing on his lips. "You didn't change a thing, sì?"

Margareta chuckled and shook her head, her response clear. "Never."

Terzo's playful banter continued with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Well, I just hope you've changed one thing, cognata. I trust you two are keeping things... interesting only inside your chambers, sì? We wouldn't want Primo to accidentally walk in on you again."

Margareta took a deep breath and gazed up at Secondo, who stood behind her. "I think we might need to change tonight's location."

Secondo grinned and leaned down, planting a tender kiss on her lips. Terzo, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, decided to join in the conversation.

"That would be quite considerate of you both," Terzo chimed in, reaching for Angèle's waist as he rose from his chair. "We were already pondering the idea of utilizing that space."

Primo, ever the practical one, added his own note to the conversation. "Potete tutti stare lontani dalla mia serra?" He chuckled, taking his seat at the table.

The woman in Secondo's arms shifted her attention to you, her smile warm and welcoming. In response, you returned her smile and watched as she gracefully disentangled herself from Secondo's arm, choosing instead to hold his hand.

"You're probably Andras' nanny, right?" she inquired.

You nodded, confirming her guess. "Yes, I am."

Approaching you, the woman led Secondo along with her, their hands remaining intertwined. Her soft smile persisted as she introduced herself. "It's a pleasure to meet you," she began, her tone friendly. "I'm Margareta, but you can call me Marga."

"And she is my wife," Secondo added, his gaze now focused on you.

Marga let out a small giggle. "Yes, I'm his wife," she affirmed, tilting her head to look at Secondo. "Secondino, you know you don't have to emphasize it every time I introduce myself, right?"

"Marga, per favore don't call me Secondino in front of everyone..." Secondo muttered, glancing at his brothers. "And I just want everyone to know that you are my wife..."

Terzo couldn't resist chiming in with a playful remark, still holding Angèle in his arms. "We all know it, Secondino. What I don't know is why I can't call her as Marga when everyone else can."

"Because you do it to mock me, so you'll just have to keep calling her by her name," Secondo retorted sharply. "And don't you dare call me Secondino, cretino."

"What about you, Copia?" she called out to him. "So quiet in your Papa's chair."

You glanced over your shoulder to observe Copia, and indeed, Margareta's observation was on point. Copia had been uncharacteristically reserved. After exchanging a brief, subtle glance with you, he gave Margareta a small smile and rose from his seat. As he approached the group, a nervous energy swirled within you.

"Mi dispiace, cognata," he said as he reached your side.

Margareta responded with warmth and reassurance, "You never have to apologize to me, Copia. Congratulations! I'm very happy for you, and I know how hard you've worked for this. I'm really proud of you. You deserve to be the new Papa, and I'm so sorry I couldn't make it to your first party, but I really wanted to."

Copia replied, "Per favore, don't apologize either. What matters now is that you are here with us."

Secondo added his agreement, looking down at Margareta with affection. Margareta stood on her tiptoes and planted a sweet kiss on Secondo's cheek. Secondo, in turn, gently tilted her face to capture her lips with his own. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Copia subtly turning his gaze away.

Copia eventually broke the moment, suggesting, "Shall we start our dinner? Per favore, take your seats."

With Copia's suggestion, he returned to his seat at the head of the table, and everyone else began to move around, finding their designated places. But you remained standing, observing their actions. As you looked around, you spotted an empty chair on the right side of the table, right beside Copia. You walked over to it and took your seat, positioning yourself between Copia on your right and Secondo on your left.

Copia turned his face to address the Ghouls, saying, "Per favore."

With just that single word, the Ghouls obediently walked through another door, disappearing from your view. You couldn't help but feel curious about where they were going, but your attention was soon drawn back to the table. You noticed Secondo pouring some wine into your glass, and you smiled in appreciation.

Primo raised his glass and suggested, "Let's toast to our fratello."

Everyone at the table followed suit, raising their glasses, and you did the same. The glasses clinked together, producing a pleasant sound that echoed through the room. However, what truly caught your attention was the subtle brush of Copia's hand against yours, causing a shiver to run down your spine.

"To Copia!" Primo exclaimed.

"To Copia!" the others echoed.

You added your own sentiment, speaking softly, "To Papa."

You all raised your glasses once more, toasting and taking a sip of the wine before placing them back on the table. The Siblings from the Ministry re-entered the dining salon, expertly carrying plates of delectable dishes, and served each person at the table before quietly departing. The food looked and smelled amazing, and you didn't hesitate to dig in. It tasted even better than it looked.

Terzo's voice interrupted the pleasant atmosphere. "So," he began, "I think we should talk about what happened yesterday."

Your heart skipped a beat, and you froze in your seat, wondering what Terzo meant. Did he somehow know about the kiss? Your thoughts raced, and you stole a quick glance at Copia to gauge his reaction. He choked on his food, coughing suddenly, which startled everyone at the table. Wide-eyed, you watched as he reached for his glass of wine, took a few sips to clear his throat, and finally composed himself.

Copia, his voice sharp from the earlier coughing fit, finally managed to speak. "What... What do you want to talk about yesterday?"

"The lunch," Terzo furrowed his brows, slightly puzzled. "What more would it be?"

Copia's voice trembled slightly as he replied, "Nothing, fratello."

Copia took a deep breath and continued to eat his meal, and you followed suit, doing your best to focus on the food in front of you. The tension in the air was palpable, and you couldn't help but feel Terzo's gaze on you. However, you avoided his stare and kept your attention on your plate.

You tensed slightly as Terzo continued to address the situation, his words hanging in the air. He offered you a small, reassuring smile before speaking, "I think you did a good job yesterday. E credo che tutti i nostri fratelli siano d'accordo."

Primo raised his glass and took a sip. "Certainly the clergy is happy with you, fratello."

Secondo followed suit. "I think you'll be a great leader for our Ministry."

Terzo leaned back in his chair, swirling his wine. "Your first Black Mass is in some days, how are you feeling about it?"

Copia looked around at his brothers, a hint of nervousness in his eyes. "I feel a little bit nervous, but I've watched you three before leading a Black Mass, so I think I can do it. I hope."

Terzo took a sip of his wine, then set the glass down with a reassuring smile. "There's nothing to be nervous about. You were prepared for it, you are being prepared for it, everything will be alright."

"Beside, we will be there, fratello," Secondo said.

"I know," Copia said, his voice filled with gratitude. "And I'm very grateful that you three took the time to help me with this."

"I wouldn't be worried, Copia," Margareta began, leaning in closer to Secondo, "I don't think it will be like it was for Secondino."

"Marga!" Secondo protested, casting a side glance at her. "Amore mio, don't bring that up now."

"Why not?" she giggled, brushing her fingers gently over his arm. "Secondino, it's okay. You didn't know what to do."

Curiosity got the better of you as you interjected, "What happened, Papa Secondo?"

"Well..." Margareta started with a mischievous smile, earning a disapproving look from Secondo.

"Marga!" he said again, but his wife didn't seem to mind as she got even closer to him.

"What?" she chuckled, her playful tone evident. "Tell her what happened."

Secondo sighed and gave in. "It was my first Black Mass as the new Papa. I was a bit nervous, of course. And when it came time for me to remove my clothes for the ritual... Well, I panicked, and let's just say it was a bit chaotic."

"I think it was very pleasant," Marga remarked, raising her wine glass to her lips for a delicate sip.

“It was terrible,” he admitted, his smile growing as he directed his gaze towards Margareta. “I didn’t know where to look or what to do, and it was quite embarrassing. What's worse is that I didn't realize they didn't expect me to strip down entirely just to switch from the Cardinal robes to the Papa ones.”

"And that was the moment I fell in love with him," Margareta said with a smile, causing Secondo press a gentle kiss on her lips.

"Was it, amore mio?" Secondo inquired.

Margareta bit her lower lip and shook her head playfully. "No, but you gave me a view I will never forget."

"I'm sure he provided a memorable view for everyone," Primo quipped, chuckling.

Secondo rolled his eyes playfully and glanced at Primo. "Don't encourage her."

"So," you began, "can I ask how you two fell in love?"

Margareta chuckled, "It's a sweet story, really."

"Sì," Secondo agreed, a soft smile on his face. "It was shortly after that incident, while I was still struggling with my role as the new Papa, that I stumbled upon Margareta while she was doing some gardening."

"Actually, he came into Primo's greenhouse cursing," Margareta recounted with a chuckle, "and I couldn't help but give him a disapproving look. To my surprise, he quieted down almost immediately, but it was clear he was just nervous. After all, the poor man had just stripped naked in front of everyone."

"She was the first one to succeed to shut me up," Secondo said. "So day after day I went back to that greenhouse because I knew she would be there. We started talking, and I found her insights and humor captivating. We spent time getting to know each other, and our connection deepened.”

Margareta leaned her head against Secondo's shoulder, smiling at the memory. "I was intrigued by Secondo's dedication and intelligence. The more we talked, the more I realized I admired him and enjoyed his company."

“I was very serious back then,” Secondo added, smiling at Margareta. “But as Marga got to know me better, she realized there was more to me than just being a stern Papa.”

“That’s right,” Margareta said, her gaze filled with affection as she looked at her husband. “He’s quite the gentleman, really.”

"And soon," Secondo added, "our friendship turned into love."

"It was a beautiful time," Margareta said, her eyes sparkling. "And it still is."

You couldn't help but smile as you observed the playful dynamics between Margareta and Secondo. Your momentary distraction ended when you felt Copia's knees brushing against yours. You turned your head to look at him, but he seemed engrossed in Secondo's conversation. You assumed it was just a casual accident, perhaps.

Primo addressed Copia, turning his face toward him, with a playful but sincere request. "Copia, I just have one thing to say: please don't be like them, don't bring anyone inside my greenhouse."

Copia's eyes widened as he registered the request, and he responded quickly with a nod. "O-Of course, fratello! Why would I? I don't even have someone to bring there with me."

"Bene, molto bene," Primo acknowledged with a smile, pleased with Copia's response.

The dinner continued as everyone focused on their meals and engaged in light-hearted conversations. However, a sudden cry interrupted the pleasant atmosphere as Andras began to wail. You instinctively rose from your seat, but Angèle also stood up and cradled Andras in her arms.

"Don't worry, dear," Angèle reassured you. "Continue your dinner; it's alright."

"Alright, miss," you replied, sitting back down.

Angèle gently rocked the little one in her arms in an attempt to soothe his cries. "I believe it's time to put him to bed; he seems a little uncomfortable here."

"Cara mia, are you sure?" Terzo questioned. "We haven't had dessert yet."

Angèle responded with a playful wink. "Perhaps you can bring me dessert later?"

Terzo's face lit up with a wicked grin as he nodded in agreement. Angèle leaned down and planted a tender kiss on his lips before heading towards the front door with Andras in her arms.

The dinner continued, and as Angèle left the room with Andras, you returned your attention to the remaining ones at the table. Most were almost finished with their meals. You noticed Copia, still quiet and avoiding you. Sighing softly, you redirected your gaze to your empty plate.

Suddenly, you felt a slight, discreet movement as Copia's index finger gently brushed against your hand. You glanced down at the subtle touch and then turned your eyes to meet his. A soft smile played on your lips as you responded by moving your finger to touch his. Copia, still not looking at you directly, couldn't hide a small, shy smile forming at the corner of his lips.

Your thoughts swirled as you tried to make sense of the situation. After everything that had transpired today, after Copia's previous avoidance, you were now witnessing him taking tentative steps to approach you again.

You contemplated whether this was the right moment to broach the subject of what had happened earlier. Should you ask him quietly, in a hushed murmur, to ensure no one else could overhear? However, you hesitated, not wanting to disrupt this precious moment, especially when he seemed to be taking a small step forward. Turning your gaze back to him, you noticed his lips parting, and you couldn't help but wonder if this was the opening you had been waiting for.

However, the gentle spell between you was broken when a delectable dessert was placed in front of you, and Copia discreetly withdrew his finger from yours, causing you to refocus your attention on the Papas at the table. However, a puzzled expression crossed your face when you noticed that Terzo was no longer seated with them. You had been so engrossed in Copia's touch that his absence had escaped your notice.

"Excuse me," you politely inquired, "Where is Papa Terzo?"

"Probabilmente scopando," Secondo remarked playfully.

"Stai zitto, Secondo," Primo chimed in, his tone stern. "He left a few minutes ago."

"He left? To where?" you asked.

"I assume he returned to the Papal Apartment," Margareta replied.

"Ah!" you exclaimed as you rose from your seat. "Excuse me, Papas, Marga. I need to leave now."

As you spoke, you glanced around, giving everyone a warm smile. Your eyes met Copia's, and there was a trace of longing in his gaze. His lips were still parted, as if he wanted to say something, but he turned his attention back to the dessert in front of him. You pushed your chair back into place and headed toward the front door. After opening it, you exited the dining salon, making your way to the Papal Apartment to find out where Terzo had gone.

As you hurriedly left the dining salon, your steps echoed through the quiet hallways of the Ministry. With each step, you couldn't help but think about Copia and his tentative attempts to reach out to you during dinner. His touch had left you in a state of longing and confusion, and you couldn't help but wonder what it meant. What was going on in his mind, and what had prompted him to act so mysteriously?

With a soft sigh, you approached the door, your fingers grasping the handle, and you pushed it open. As you entered the apartment no sound could be heard. You walked to the living room and you spotted Terzo seated on one of the couches, a glass of wine in his hand, and a contemplative expression on his face. He turned his head as you entered, his eyes meeting yours, and he offered a small, knowing smile.

"Benvenuta," he said, setting his glass aside as he noticed your return.

You returned his smile, stepping further into the room. "Papa, is everything alright?"

Terzo chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. "Sì, sì. I just came back because I brought Angèle's dessert."

"Ah!" you nodded in understanding.

Terzo's curious gaze shifted to you. "And you? Why did you leave?"

"As you left the dinner, I thought something might be happening," you explained, moving closer to him, "and it's my duty to assist your family, Papa."

"I see," he said with a warm smile, rising from the couch. "You didn't need to worry, piccola. But grazie."

"You're welcome, Papa," you replied with a grateful smile.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take a shower and head to bed. Angèle is with Andras in his quarters."

You nodded, and watched as he headed towards his bedroom. After he left, you decided to check on Angèle and Andras in the baby's bedroom to see if she needed any assistance before you retired to your own quarters for the night.

You gently opened the door to Andras's room and peeked inside. "Excuse me, miss," you inquired. "Do you need anything?"

Angèle turned towards you with a warm smile. "Hello, dear. No, please don't worry. You can go and get some rest now. Andras is already fast asleep, and I will be heading to bed shortly as well."

"Thank you," you replied, returning her smile. "Goodnight to both of you."

Closing the door to Andras' room quietly, you retreated to your own bedroom, intent on seeking solace from the day's events. After selecting your nightclothes, you indulged in a blissful, hot shower. The cascading warmth of the water enveloped you, a welcome escape from the day's trials. Standing beneath the soothing stream, a hint of sadness swept over you. The missed opportunity of spending more time at the dinner, particularly with Copia, left an ache in your heart.

After finishing your shower, you turned off the water and dried yourself meticulously. You slipped into your comfortable nightclothes and left the bathroom, returning to your bedroom, preparing to go to sleep, you began removing your sheets.

Just as you were about to ascend into the comfort of your bed, an unexpected series of knocks echoed from the front door. Frustration welled up within you, wondering who could possibly be calling at such an hour. You rolled your eyes in exasperation, finding it hard to believe someone would show up now.

With reluctance, you approached your bedroom door, determined to discover the source of the commotion. However, as you neared the front door, Terzo emerged from his room, enveloped in a sumptuous silk robe. He was hastily tying its belt while muttering something in Italian. Shortly after, Angèle appeared, her hair slightly tousled.

You discreetly averted your gaze and took a step backward into your room, positioning yourself near the door. Just as you did so, the front door swung open, and Terzo's voice reverberated throughout the house.

"Questo non è il momento per questo," he declared, his tone dripping with anger.

"Ho interrotto qualcosa?" the person inquired.

Suddenly, a wave of recognition washed over you as you identified the voice. It was Copia. Your eyes widened, and an elated grin tugged at your lips. Slowly, you inched your face closer to the door, attempting to catch a glimpse of him at the front entrance.

Terzo's anger flared. "Cosa pensi, idiota?" he snapped.

"Mi dispiace, fratello. Non volevo interrompere il tuo..." Copia began.

"Say what you want," Terzo retorted.

Copia nervously cleared his throat. "I just... Can I have a word with your nanny?"

"My..." Terzo's lips curled into a wicked grin. "My nanny, Copia? You? Really?"

"No, it's not what you're thinking," Copia hastily explained, his voice betraying his unease.

Copia's voice echoed through the house, and an intense blush warmed your cheeks. You quickly stepped back from the door, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. Why was Copia here, at this late hour, and what did he want? The questions swirled in your mind, and your entire body tensed with a mix of curiosity and nervous anticipation.

"Piccola!" Terzo's voice echoed through the apartment.

When you heard Terzo calling for you, your entire body tensed with anticipation. There was no avoiding it—you had to leave your room. Pretending to be asleep was out of the question; it would be rather foolish. Gathering your courage, you took a deep breath and ventured out of your room, aware of Angèle's inquisitive gaze tracking your every move.

Each step towards the front door felt like an extra weight on your legs, a heavy burden of anticipation. When Copia's eyes turned towards you, it was as if the world had momentarily ceased to exist, and you almost believed you'd stopped breathing. As you reached the front door, you halted a step behind Terzo. He graciously moved aside, granting you space, and gestured for you to step forward. With his silent encouragement, you took that step and found yourself standing face to face with Copia.

"Good evening, Papa," you greeted, a shy smile gracing your lips.

"Buonasera," he responded, extending a hand toward you. "Would you mind going for a walk with me?"

You couldn't help but break into a bashful smile as you met his gaze, and you accepted his offered hand. It was the first time you felt the warmth of his bare hand against yours; for the past two days, he had always been adorned in his formal attire, and those gloves had been an integral part of his ensemble. Copia took a step back, gracefully guiding you with him, and then placed your hand on his arm.

"I promise I won't take up too much of your time," he assured you, his eyes locked onto yours.

"Non preoccuparti, fratello," Terzo glanced back over his shoulder at Angèle, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Prendetevi tutto il tempo che vi serve voi due."

As the door clicked shut, enveloping you and Copia in a private cocoon, a playful chuckle lingered in the air. An unspoken connection passed between you, evident in the exchanged glances you shared. In that intimate moment, Copia's hand found its place, resting gently atop yours, and you turned your gaze to meet his. His smile, affectionate and welcoming, adorned his lips, and the twinkle in his eyes was impossible to overlook as he gazed down at you.

"Shall we go?" Copia inquired.

"Please," you replied with a smile.

Copia set off, and you seamlessly fell into stride beside him, your arms naturally intertwining. You leaned your head against his shoulder, and Copia accepted the contact with a subtle, amused hum that escaped his lips. Inhaling deeply, you cherished the peacefulness of the quiet walk. It felt as though you could close your eyes and just be in that moment, secure in the knowledge that he was there to guide you wherever this path might lead.

"Where are you taking me, Papa?" you inquired, a note of curiosity in your voice.

Copia flashed you a mischievous grin. "Oh, it's a surprise."

Your eyes sparkled with excitement. "A surprise?"

Copia nodded, and with a tender gesture, he disentangled your hand from his arm and instead held it, his fingers gently interlocking with yours. The sensation sent your heart racing, and your gaze fixated on his hand resting in yours. The simplicity of feeling his bare skin against yours stirred an electric warmth deep within you.

As you continued your leisurely walk through the ministry's corridors, your gaze alternated between the enchanting surroundings and Copia by your side. The beauty of the ministry appeared even more mesmerizing in the subdued light of the night, creating an intimate atmosphere that enveloped you both. It felt as if Copia's mere presence had the ability to enhance the surroundings, making them more inviting.

Copia came to a stop and positioned himself directly in front of you. You observed him with a mix of curiosity and anticipation as he took a step closer, gently taking both of your hands and guiding them toward your face with meticulous care. Your hands came to rest on your face, covering your eyes, effectively rendering you blind. You felt Copia move behind you, and a surprised squeak escaped your lips as you sensed his hands on your waist.

His warm breath caressed your ear as he whispered, "Don't remove your hands. Let me guide you, sì?"

With an eager nod, you agreed, "Yes, Papa..."

"Do you trust me?" he continues.

Your heart raced, but without hesitation, you replied, "Yes."

"Molto bene," he whispered before pulling away.

Copia began to guide you, and you both moved slowly. His firm grip on your waist kept you steady, ensuring you wouldn't falter or lose your way. Every touch sent shivers through you, and your hands trembled slightly. You could feel the temptation to peek, to try and catch a glimpse of your surroundings, but you made the conscious choice to close your eyes and place your trust entirely in him.

Copia continued guiding you until he brought you to a stop. You felt his hands leave your waist, and a slight chill in the air made you shiver with anticipation. His presence only added to the excitement as you sensed him moving to stand in front of you once more. His hands gently took yours, lifting them away from your face, and you slowly opened your eyes.

As your eyes met his, Copia beamed with a smile. He stepped aside, and your eyes widened with joy as you saw it, the garden. Your eyes lit up, and a broad grin stretched across your face as you took in the sight. Unable to contain your excitement, you turned toward Copia, who extended his hand to yours.

Without a moment's hesitation, you flung yourself into his embrace, wrapping your arms tightly around him. Your hands reached up to encircle his neck as you buried your face against his chest. Copia stood there, his face deeply flushed, seemingly transfixed by the moment.

Slowly, his hands moved to your back, tenderly caressing you as he wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, almost protectively. You took a deep breath, savoring the closeness and warmth of his embrace. And for a while, you both simply basked in the comfort of each other's arms.

"Cuoricina," Copia eventually spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your eyes fluttered open, locking onto his intense gaze. His face hovered mere inches from yours, his warm breath gently brushing against your skin. He held your gaze for a lingering moment, and you could sense his focus gradually shifting towards your lips. You took a deep breath, relishing the intimacy of the moment, and your eyes drifted shut in anticipation of a kiss. Your heart raced, and you held your breath, consumed by the mounting desire as Copia's breath drew nearer to yours.

Yet, just when you thought the moment was about to culminate, Copia pulled away, leaving you breathless and yearning for more. "I was a completely terrible friend yesterday," Copia's voice was laden with guilt and self-recrimination as he spoke.

You furrowed your brow, puzzled by his confession. "What? What are you talking about?"

"The... the kiss," he admitted reluctantly, his eyes filled with regret as he finally met your gaze.

"Oh," you responded with understanding, offering a forgiving smile. "It's okay, Papa. You were under influence of the wine, and it was a spur-of-the-moment choice, right?"

Copia sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "It's more complicated than that. The wine is not an excuse for me to do it. I shouldn't have kissed you, especially since you mentioned we're friends. It was a mistake, and you deserve better."

"What do you mean?" you inquired, your curiosity piqued.

Copia met your gaze, his eyes filled with remorse and doubt. "I didn't even ask if you wanted it. I just... I'm deeply sorry. It was an ill-considered action."

You watched him closely, your heart aching for the torment he was feeling. "Papa, everything is okay."

Copia sighed, his shoulders slumping with the weight of his emotions. He ran a hand through his face. "How can everything be okay? I wasn't... I wasn't a nice man for you."

You stepped closer, reaching out to touch his arm. "Papa..."

"I shouldn't have kissed you," Copia confessed, his voice tinged with regret. "Not when I wasn't myself, not in the wrong state. I just want you to forgive me. I won't do it again, won't kiss you unless you–"

"Papa!" Your urgent call silenced him instantly. "It's okay, I forgive you," you said, your voice a whisper.

Copia's eyes met yours, gratitude and relief shining in them. "You... forgive me?" he whispered.

You nodded. "Yes, Papa."

Though you wanted to express that forgiveness wasn't necessary, given your mutual desire, the weight of his regret held you back from revealing your true feelings. It was an impulsive act, fueled by the effects of alcohol, and the sincerity in his remorse made you take a step back from what you really wanted to tell him.

Copia sighed. "So it was not strange that I kissed you?"

"Copia, it was just an impulsive kiss," you reassured, a playful giggle escaping your lips. "You didn't want to kiss me, right?"

"Sì... just an impulsive kiss," he echoed, a subtle lie masking the underlying truth. "Would you like to come with me to somewhere else?"

With a nod of agreement, Copia gently took your hand in his, fingers intertwining. A silent connection passed between your eyes as he guided you through the garden. Together, you strolled until reaching a quiet corner, hidden from the prying eyes of the ministry. Before a greenhouse, Copia gracefully knelt, revealing a concealed key among potted plants. Retrieving it, he deftly unlocked the door, gesturing for you to enter. Stepping inside, you heard the door click shut behind you. As you turned to face Copia, a playful smile crossed your lips,

"I recall you saying you wouldn't be invading Primo's greenhouse," you remarked with a teasing glint in your eyes.

Copia's playful expression remained unchanged. "I made no promises."

"Very wise, Papa," you replied, a smirk playing on your lips.

Copia's question hung in the air, "Are you implying I'm old again, cuoricina?"

Your soft chuckle rippled through the air. "I wouldn't dare call you old, Papa."

A satisfied smile played on his lips as he gracefully moved to another part of the greenhouse, taking measured steps toward an aged wooden table. With purpose, he opened its drawers, the creaking sound breaking the quiet atmosphere.

"What's on your mind, Papa?" you asked, curiosity in your tone.

Copia's attention fixated on the drawer's contents as he explained, "I'm searching for something Primo used to keep around here."

Copia's hands deftly sifted through the contents of the drawers, his fingers tracing the edges of various items until he found what he sought. With a triumphant smile, he retrieved a bundle of soft, warm sheets, subtly scented with a hint of winter herbs.

"Ah, eccolo qui!" he declared, holding the sheets in his hands.

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What's so special about those sheets, Papa?"

"These belongs to Primo," Copia explained, his eyes reflecting nostalgia and warmth. "He used them during the winter nights when he stayed late, tending to the plants."

He walked back to you, sheets in hand, and made his way to the center of the greenhouse. With a flourish, he spread the sheets on the floor. Copia took a seat and extended a hand towards you. You gracefully approached, and as you sat beside him, he pressed a soft kiss on the back of your hand. Laying down on the sheets, he left one hand behind his head.

"Come," he invited, extending his arm across the sheets for you.

Smiling warmly, you accepted his invitation. Taking your place next to him, you rested your head on his arm. A contented sigh escaped your lips as you closed your eyes, immersing yourself in the tranquility of the night. The only sounds that filled the air were the rhythmic pattern of your breaths and the comforting silence of the night. His arm beneath your head shifted, and his fingers delicately traced your temple. The gentle caress of his knuckles brought a smile to your lips.

"I used to spend nights at the ministry," Copia's voice carried a calm and reflective tone as he began to speak. "And whenever I couldn't sleep, I would come here to spend the night with Primo. He was always here until late. I think it was his escape from the overwhelming routine."

"That sounds lovely," you replied, a contented sigh escaping your lips.

"Sì, it was." Copia's voice softened. "We used to spend the night talking, sometimes until the first one yawns or until the sun invades the glass walls of this greenhouse."

A playful smile played on your lips. "And who was the first one to yawn?" you asked, a light giggle escaping.

Copia chuckled, a gentle breath of amusement. "Me," he confessed.

Slowly, you opened your eyes, turning your head to meet his gaze. Mere inches apart, the desire to close the gap surged within you. The thought lingered—to ask for a kiss, to bridge the distance with a proper one, not just a swift touch of lips. The tension between you and Copia was palpable, an unspoken connection that fueled the desire to close the gap. His eyes held warmth and longing as they locked onto yours. You felt the urge to express your desire, to convey the unspoken yearning that lingered in the quiet space between you. Copia's fingers continued their gentle dance on your temple, creating a soothing rhythm that echoed the beating of your heart.

"Papa," you murmured softly.

He turned towards you, a gentle smile on his face. "Sì, cuoricina?" he responded, his hand tenderly caressing your temple.

Nuzzling closer, you hesitated for a moment before asking, "Can I ask you something?"

His fingers paused for a moment, and he looked at you with warm curiosity. "Sì, what do you want to know?"

Taking a deep breath, you asked, "Did you intend to kiss me?"

His touch lingered, and his expression softened. "I..." he began, his eyes searching for the right words.

"It's okay if you didn't," you reassured.

"I did," he replied with urgency, his fingers now gently tracing patterns on the sheets. "It's just complicated."

"How?" your brow furrowed as you waited for an explanation.

"I overheard... I overheard your conversation with Dewdrop," he admitted, his gaze briefly averted. Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet yours, and you could sense the vulnerability in his expression. "I heard you say that a Papa like me wouldn't want to kiss you." He took a deep breath, his fingers fidgeting with a loose strand of your hair. "But the truth is, I did want to, just not under those circumstances. I wanted it to be a conscious decision, a moment where it was just you and me, free from any misunderstandings."

"Papa..." you whispered.

His title hung in the air, a subtle plea for something more. The silence between your words crackled with anticipation, leaving the plead unspoken yet echoing loudly. Would he close the gap, or would you dare to take the plunge yourself? Copia's gaze lingered, the air thick with unspoken tension. However, just as you braced yourself for the anticipated connection, he subtly shifted, turning his face away. The moment of potential intimacy dissipated like a fleeting breeze.

You sighed with a tinge of disappointment, turning your face away as Copia's hand withdrew from your temple. Your gaze drifted to the glass ceiling above. If he wanted to kiss you that night, why would he avoid you now?

Delicately, you lifted your head from his arm, settling onto the sheets and taking a moment to adjust your hair. Copia, reclining beside you, fixed his gaze on your form. As you sat up, he mirrored your movement, positioning himself right beside you. His hand found its place on your back, the gentle caress sending a shiver through you. When you turned your face to him, your lips parted, but before you could say anything, Copia quickly spoke.

"Is there something wrong, cuoricina?" he inquired, concern evident in his voice.

"Nothing. I think I should go back," you reassured him, your voice soft,

"Already?" he shook his head, a hint of disappointment crossing his features. "I mean, that's totally fine; it's late after all. I just thought you'd like to stay a little bit more. You said you wanted to come to the garden, and I thought..."

Smiling, you looked at him and leaned in, pressing a kiss on his cheek. It was a small, harmless kiss, yet filled with a depth of sentiment. "I loved that you brought me here," you said, your words carrying a warmth that seemed to linger in the air.

"Grazie," he replied in a whisper.

A smile graced your lips as you began to rise from the sheets on the floor. However, Copia's hand gently cupped your cheek, turning your face towards him, causing a slight gasp to escape you. Your eyes locked, the unspoken tension lingering between you. His fingers traced a delicate path from your cheek to your nape, leaving a trail of gentle tingles in their wake.

His lips parted, leaning in closer to yours. Just as anticipation heightened, he lifted his neck, planting a soft kiss on your forehead. You could feel the light pressure of his fingers, a tender grip that lingered for a moment before he pulled away, leaving you with a fluttering heartbeat.

You observed as Copia rose from the sheets, extending his hand toward you. Taking it, you rose to your feet together. Copia bent down to gather the sheets from the floor, playfully waving them into the air in an attempt to straighten them before neatly folding them. As you approached the door, Copia returned the sheets to their place on the table, and you walked back to the door, with him following suit.

"Wait," Copia interrupted, turning back toward the inside of the greenhouse. Curiosity sparked, you furrowed your brows and took a small step to the side, attempting to catch a glimpse of his actions. Before you could peer inside, Copia returned to you.

"Here," he said, extending a rose. "I want you to have it."

"Copia!" you chuckled nervously, cheeks flushed. "Put that back, Papa Primo will be furious if he discovers it!"

"He won't even notice I took it; there are plenty inside," he insisted. "Per favore, just accept it."

"Fine..." you smiled, bringing the rose close to your nose to savor its fragrance.

Copia watched you with a satisfied smile before closing the door behind him and discreetly returning the hidden key to its place among the potted plants.

"Shall we go back now?" Copia inquired.

"Yes," you replied.

Copia extended his arm, and you took it, walking with him back to the garden, leaving the concealed greenhouse behind. Glancing over your shoulder, you stole a final glance at the hidden sanctuary before focusing on the path ahead. The return to the ministry walls was marked by a quietness, both of you choosing to remain silent, perhaps out of consideration for the sleeping residents. The stillness enveloped you as you strolled, the night shrouded in tranquility.

As the doors of the Papal Apartment loomed in the distance, a subtle tension gripped your stomach. You hesitated, a reluctance to enter signaling the end of the night. It hinted at the unknown of the following day, and you couldn't shake the worry of facing another morning with his coldness. Yet, everything seemed fine between you two now, and there was no reason to be anxious about tomorrow. Before you realized it, you and Copia were standing at the front door, side by side, facing the inevitable entry into the apartment.

You removed your arm from his and turned to him, holding the rose he just gave you close to your chest. "Thank you for the evening," you replied, a soft smile playing on your lips.

Copia's playful glint remained as he gently placed his hand on your face, his thumb caressing your cheek. "You don't need to thank me," he said, his eyes locked onto yours, a hint of a smile on his lips.

"Don't I?" you teased, a playful glimmer in your eyes.

"No," he giggled, his touch lingering for a moment longer.

You nodded and turned toward the door, reaching for the doorknob to open the entrance to the Papal apartment. Copia, however, wasn't quite ready to let you go. He reached for your hand, a subtle yet firm grip, causing you to turn your face toward him.

"Instead," he began, his voice taking a slightly more serious tone, "Would you like to go out with me tomorrow? I'll have a free day and need to attend to some things outside the Ministry. Perhaps, you'd like to come with me."

The suggestion caught you off guard, and excitement bubbled within you. "Oh!" you exclaimed, trying to play it cool but failing to hide your genuine enthusiasm. "I... I do, that would be awesome. But I need to check with Papa Terzo first."

"Tell him those are important matters and that I asked you to keep me company," he suggested, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"I don't think he'd fall for that, but I can try," you replied.

"I'll come to get you here in the morning," he said, a smile playing on his lips.

"Okay!" you replied, giving up on hiding your excitement, your smile widening. "Well, I should go inside then and rest."

"Sì, sì," he nodded, taking a step back. "And I hope you have a lovely night."

"You too, Papa," you said, opening the door and stepping inside. However, your excitement broke through as you turned to him, wrapping one of your arms around his neck in a spontaneous hug.

Copia froze for a moment, his hands hesitating before gently touching you. Before he could fully reciprocate, you pulled away, leaving him with a sweet smile.

"Goodnight, Papa," you said, taking another step into the papal apartment. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Sì, tomorrow," he replied in a soft tone, nodding. "Buonanotte, cuoricina." The words lingered in the air as you closed the door.

You took a deep breath, a mix of anticipation and happiness settling within you. You couldn't wait for the day out with Copia tomorrow. Something was different now. There was a unique feeling about him—a shift in the air. Before, you simply shared moments with him, but now, perhaps it was the way he spoke, held you, or apologized. Maybe, just maybe, feelings were emerging.

Grammar

Bene, molto bene: Good, very good

Sì, è interessante: Yes, it's interesting

Naturalmente: Naturally

Vai a goderti la colazione: Go and enjoy breakfast

Buongiorno: Good morning

La mia cara cognata: My dear sister-in-law

Sì: yes

Potete tutti stare lontani dalla mia serra?: Can you all stay away from my greenhouse?

Secondino: Little Secondo (a name or nickname)

Per favore: Please

Cretino: Idiot

Mi dispiace, cognata: I'm sorry, sister-in-law

Fratello: Brother

E credo che tutti i nostri fratelli siano d'accordo: And I believe all our brothers would agree

Amore mio: My love

Cara mia: My dear

Probabilmente scopando: Probably fucking

Stai zitto: Be quiet

Benvenuta: Welcome

Questo non è il momento per questo: This is not the time for this

Ho interrotto qualcosa?: Did I interrupt something?

Cosa pensi, idiota?: What do you think, idiot?

Mi dispiace, fratello. Non volevo interrompere il tuo...: I'm sorry, brother. I didn't mean to interrupt your...

Piccola: Little one

Non preoccuparti, fratello: Don't worry, brother

Prendetevi tutto il tempo che vi serve voi due.: Take all the time you two need.

Cuoricina: Sweetheart

Eccolo qui: Here it is

Grazie: Thank you

Buonanotte: Goodnight

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