#golden rose clasp

[aiuredsworld]

Draco turned to let Harry see better, only to feel Harry's fingers sliding carefully through the light strands

“Here, it'd be easier if someone else does it”

————————————————————————————-

Excerpt from: Draco Malfoy and the House of Black

by starbrigid https://archiveofourown.org/works/25111171

[rainy-day-gracie]

- wedding night (2) -

A Venus & Mars mini series

pairing: General Acacius x virgin!wife!Reader

content warning(s): reader insert, no use of y/n, arranged marriage, implied age gap but nothing specific, oral (f recieving), fingering, loss of virginity, piv sex, innocence kink, self indulgent praise kink, Acacius definitely talks you through it, discussions of consent because consent is sexy mandatory, discussion of future sexual acts, AFTERCARE because aftercare is hot, general acacius is in loooooove but doesn't know it yet haha, romantic and intimate as hell, grievous historical inaccuracy because it's fucking fanfiction, canon divergent because duh

a/n: So guys. I saw Gladiator II and it was awesome and Pedro Pascal is the sexiest man alive (in my heart). However, this character's name is not Marcus. I don't know who lied, but we've all been fooled. So in this sequel, the general's name is just Acacius in order to stay at least a little bit true to the actual canon.

I definitely will be writing for these two again because holy shit I made this romantic and I love them so much.

Read wedding night (1) here!

Read bloodlust here!

---

Acacius saw heaven in your eyes, a piece of salvation he never thought he might be able to grasp with his blood-stained hands.

He glanced down your body, wrapped beautifully in your white wedding gown, gold jewelry shining in warm candlelight. For a moment, he wondered Venus herself were tricking him with her immortal seduction.

But the blush of red in your cheeks, the shine of desire in your eyes, the beat of your heart in your chest....

No immortal possibly could mimic such evidence of true, temporary, and precious life.

Acacius had been with plenty women in his lifetime, had thought he understood what desire was.

I want you, you had said.

Now, he thinks he's only scratched the surface.

---

The general-- Acacius -- peered at you like a starving man at a feast, drinking you in, turning the wheels in his head of what he wanted to do first.

He grasped your hand in both of his, studying the golden band on your ring finger. Evidence of your gods-blessed union.

"I want to see you wearing nothing.... except for this," Acacius breathed, his voice low, and dreamy, like the words were slipping from him with no control.

"I'd like that very much," you said, trying to keep your hand from trembling under his touch.

"May I strip you bare, darling?" He asked, calloused fingertips fiddling with the clasp on your golden bracelet.

"Yes."

Instantly, the bracelet fell, and then the other, and then the other. Acacius' gentle touch drove you wild, methodical and sure. He stopped for a moment, glancing at the purity ring on your pinky, and smirked in a way that nearly made your knees buckle.

Glancing back up to your gaze, he held your stare as he pulled the purity ring off. His lips were a hairsbreadth away from yours, letting you smell the sweet cherry wine on his breath.

"Kiss me," you mumbled.

Acacius' smirk remained. "Patience, darling."

He tucked the purity ring into a pocket of his tunic, and turned you around, so your back pressed against his chest. A sigh caught in your throat, realizing he had turned you both to face the full-length mirror in the corner of the bedroom.

"Answer me honestly," he said, trailing one of his knuckles down the exposed skin of your spine. "Have you ever touched yourself?"

Heat rose to your cheeks, and you shivered at his light touch. "Uh..."

"Don't you lie to me, now. It's a great sin to lie to your husband," he whispered, his teeth nipping lightly at your ear.

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I- I've touched myself. I've touched... my..."

"Your cunt?" Acacius mused.

You nodded, your chest rising heavily.

"Did you… like it? When you touched yourself?"

"N-no. I've been told it is not ladylike, to... pleasure yourself in that way."

Acacius kissed the back of your neck, making you arch into his touch. "Oh, my poor darling... there's nothing more ladylike in the world. Don't worry... I will show you how."

A full whimper escaped you at that, and Acacius undid the knots of your dress with a chuckle.

The dress fell, leaving you in only your loincloth, tied at your waist. But Acacius was looking at something else.

His eyes were transfixed on your perked breasts, his mouth slightly open as he wrapped one of his hands around the soft flesh. A high-pitched sigh left your throat, and he reached around with his other hand to take hold of the other breast.

"Do you like it when I hold you like this?" Acacius murmured, his mouth at your temple. He twitched his fingertips to pinch your nipples softly, making you close your eyes in pleasure. "Look at me."

Snapping your eyes open again, he stared you down in the mirror with a small devilish grin. He pinched your breasts again, pulling an answer from you. "Yes, Acacius."

"Good girl," he praised, your cunt throbbing at the words. He let go of your breasts, untying the cloth at your hips until you were utterly bare before him, save for your wedding ring. "Lie down on the bed, darling."

He brushed a palm over your plush backside, guiding you towards the beautiful linen bed. Plenty big for two.

You obey with a shy smile, sinking into the blankets and pillows like you were always meant to fit there. Watching from your comfortable bed, Acacius loomed over the foot, undoing buttons on his tunic, and ties on his robes.

Your lips parted slightly as he exposed the tan, scarred skin of his chest, flickering candlelight bathing him in a warm glow. He studied your expressions like a hawk, watching for any sign of discomfort or displeasure.

As he unlaced the toga and loincloth, leaving him as bare as you were, you had to keep yourself from gasping.

His cock hung heavily between his legs, not even fully aroused but still bigger than anything you had anticipated. He wrapped a hand around his manhood, smirking at your expression, but mercifully saying nothing about it.

“I am curious, my wife,” Acacius began, his voice a rumble. He pulled himself onto the marriage bed, caging you in the sheets with his arms and legs straddling. His eyes never left yours. “What did they say about me? When you learned of our union, what whispers crossed your ears?”

You licked your lips, speaking suddenly a challenge. “Um, that you w-were brave…”

Acacius leaned down, pulling one of your legs over his broad shoulders.

“…and strong…”

He mirrored the motion with your other leg, leaving your weeping cunt exposed.

“…a-and…”

Acacius paused, waiting for your answer. “And?”

“General, I shouldn’t speak ill…” you moaned, wondering if one could combust with desire.

“Tell me the truth, darling. Or you won’t get what you so eagerly want.”

“Th-they said you were cruel,” you stammered, desperately, any wall of self preservation coming down. “They said you took anything you desired, washed your hands with blood, and violence was the only language you spoke. Your rage eclipses that of Achilles, and your eyes blacken every time you raise a banner. You are of Mars himself, shedding blood like you were born to it.”

Acacius’ smirk from between your legs was wicked, and he broke your gaze for the first time since lying on the bed.

He studied your open cunt with a glazed expression, like he was lost in the pleasure of staring at your slick desire.

“If I am of Mars then you are of Venus, my darling.”

His words filled you with affection, the way his knees bent on the bed almost like he was worshiping an altar between your legs.

“So pure…” he murmured, as if the words had slipped from his lips.

Your back arched like a bow as he licked a stripe up your soaking slit, sighs escaping from your throat.

Acacius hummed with delight, fucking you on his tongue lazily, drinking your desire like nectar of the gods.

You buried your hands in his hair hesitantly, unsure of what would be pleasing to him. In all the times you eavesdropped on the married women of the court, never once had they mentioned anything like… this. Never once had they mentioned any of the overwhelming pleasure racking every limb of your body. Never once had they mentioned the lightning erupting over your skin with every brush of his calloused palm.

Acacius trailed his hands down your arched torso, cupping your breasts as his mouth traced patterns over your cunt. Your breathy moans made him chuckle into your flesh, the vibrations making you lift your hips with pleasure.

Throbbing built in your pussy, clenching around his tongue as your desire jumped at every brush of his lips.

“A-Acacius, gods…” you cried out, throwing your head back as a pinnacle raced towards you.

“Relax, my darling,” Acacius breathed, bringing one of his hands down to rest at your soft inner thigh. “I’m going to put my hands on you now.”

“Oh, please,” you begged, unsure of what it was you were begging for.

“Tell me if it becomes too much,” Acacius said, and his hand on your thigh moved.

The gentle brush of his rough fingertips on your slick folds had you gasping anew, pulling lightly on the locks of his hair.

“Such a pretty cunt,” Acacius mumbled to himself. “I have half a mind to just keep you like this.”

You whined in protest, your hips chasing his touch.

“So needy for a virgin.”

You threw your head back as his finger pushed past your slick folds, reaching spots inside of yourself that you hadn’t known existed.

“Oh, so tight, my love. You truly are pure.” Acacius curved his finger, brushing against something spongy, and sensitive. A guttural moan escaped your throat, and he laughed softly. “When the pleasure peaks, do not fight it. Let it take you away, somewhere only you and I exist.”

You nodded at his command, closing your eyes as your head sunk into the linen pillows.

Unrestrained cries erupted from you as he pulled his finger out, and in, and out again, hitting that sweet spot with every push inside of your aching cunt.

When he pressed his tongue to the bud at the top of your core, he pushed a second finger deep into your slick, making you wonder if the gods truly did become man. The stretch of his fingers pricked a pain deep within, making you clench tighter around his calloused fingertips. A slight brush of his rough facial hair against your core was your ultimate undoing.

You called out his name as the pleasure rushed down your spine, into your belly, and built in your desperate cunt. He knew it, too, and continued to thrust his fingers deep inside with renewed enthusiasm. His tongue licked against your clit with hunger, tipping you over the edge.

Cries escaped your lips as the pleasure overwhelmed you, every muscle in your body going taut as the desire took over. Your cunt clenched tightly, chasing his fingers, and your spire curved with tension as the wave of lust claimed you.

Acacius watched with a lazy smile as your core squeezed with your orgasm, evidence of your desire dripping off his lips.

“Acacius… Acacius…” you breathed as the climax subsided, your body relaxing into the bed once more.

“How do you feel, darling?” Acacius asked, crawling back up to press his nose against yours. His brown eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with adoration.

In place of an answer, you buried your hands in his curly, soft hair, pressing his lips to yours. He responded instantly, capturing your mouth with the passion of love and war.

His tongue pushed against yours, pure want seeping from every brush of his lips against yours. You gasped as his hands cupped your hips gently, like he was making sure you were a solid thing he could hold in his hands. Like he was worried you might slip through his fingers.

“I want more,” you whispered against his mouth, and he nodded with his eyes closed, like he was dreaming.

“It will hurt for a moment, but I will be gentle with you,” Acacius breathed, trailing light kisses against your throat. “Tell me when there is pain, or if you wish to stop.”

You nodded against his temple, and he pulled his lips back instantly.

“Say you want me, darling. Say you will tell me to stop if you wish.”

The intensity in those brown eyes, the desperation, had you squirming with desire once again.

You held his face in your hands, tracing your thumb against his rough stubble, studying him.

Acacius' nose was utterly Roman, looking like it had possibly been broken once or twice. Every mark on him was evidence of a man that had seen the Underworld and walked away, but not without a few scars to show for it. Though he had been nothing but gentle with you, there was no doubt he could live up to his reputation of bloodletting.

Still, you held him close.

"I want you, Acacius. I will tell you to stop if I wish to." There was no hesitation, no tremor in your voice.

He sighed in relief, reaching down to his hard cock and bringing it between your legs. You whined at the sensitive touch, and he grunted at the slickness of your folds.

"So wet for me, darling, so perfect," he moaned in your ear, guiding the soft flesh of your thighs to wrap around his hips.

Tentatively, he rubbed his cock up and down your core, getting you accustomed to the blunt feeling. You whined breathlessly, near begging for him to fuck you already.

"Patience, darling. I need to go slow to not hurt you," he mumbled.

The blunt head of his cock pushed past your sensitive folds, and you dug your nails into the strong muscles of his back.

Acacius let out a guttural groan into the heated skin of your neck. "So wet, and tight."

You called his name like a prayer, your head tossed back in pain and pleasure. Over and over again, you called his name.

"A little more, easy, easy..." Acacius moaned, pushing further into your virgin cunt.

You cried out in pinching desire. "S-so much, Acacius..."

"I know, darling. We're halfway there."

You held tight to him, his rough hands on your soft skin distracting you from the stretch of your cunt around his cock. "H-halfway?"

Acacius chuckled, holding still inside of you to let you adjust. "You feel... divine. So, so perfect, my sweet wife."

A high pitched moan escaped you as he pulled back slightly, kissing your neck as he pushed farther in. You clenched around him, and his lips on your clammy skin sent a fresh wave of lust panging though you.

But Acacius stopped, and you gasped in pain again, as if he had hit a barrier in your core he couldn't push past. You knew he could bottom out if he so wanted, but not without tearing you deeply.

Instead of pushing forward, he stayed where he was inside of you, tracing his nose along the curve of your jaw.

When he spoke again, his voice was low, almost like he didn't mean for you to hear his words.

"Do you want to know what I want, darling?"

You were too breathless to answer.

Acacius continued. "I want to fuck you so well that all of Rome hears you calling my name. I want to mark you with my mouth so you may look in the mirror and think only of me. I want fall to my knees and thank the gods that gave you to me. But for now, my darling... I want you to come on my cock with your most divine cunt."

Your cunt, as if on command, fluttered, and you moaned as he was able to fill you to the hilt without a pinch of discomfort.

"Oh, yes," Acacius whispered, his tongue darting out along your pulse point. You cried out in pleasure as he shifted inside of you, holding tight to his strong back.

"You... are... perfect, darling," he panted, thrusting slowly, in and out, in and out. "So warm, and tight..."

"Acacius, please..."

"Please... what?" Acacius teased, biting your bottom lip slightly as he pushed back into you.

"More... more," you said, digging your nails into the muscles of his shoulders.

Acacius responded in kind, chuckling at your desperation. "As my lady commands."

His thrusts into your aching cunt deepened, becoming harder as you grew needy for his strength. You tossed your head back with a high-pitched cry when he was able to hit that perfectly sensitive spot inside of you, and the reaction made him even more ravenous for you.

"Oh, you take my cock so well," Acacius praised, the words making your cunt clench around him. "So, so good, my darling."

As if he knew what you needed before you did, he pulled his chest away from yours, sitting up on his knees while thrusting into you. He looped his wide arms underneath your spread legs, angling you upwards on his thighs and pulling your hips up off of the bed. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and you arched your back off the sheets with a shriek of delight.

"Acacius, Acacius," you cried out, the new angle sending him deep into your core, hitting spots you hadn't even known existed.

"That's it, say my name," Acacius said with a smirk. "Say my name when I fuck you, tell all of Rome who is making you feel this good."

You couldn't stop, the falling of his name from your lips dripping like sweet honey. All you could feel was the sweat of his skin against yours, the calloused of his hands as they gripped your soft thighs closely, and the depths of your core his cock was able to reach.

"You're going to cum for me," Acacius ordered, his words coming out in pants of breath. "You're going to cum for me, because you're a good girl. You're a good girl, aren't you? Letting me fuck her virgin cunt so nicely, such a good girl..."

At his praise, your cunt tightened around his cock, back arching like a bow. As you came, he pressed a calloused hand into the flesh above your pelvis, the pressure making your high all the more intense. You cried out his name, over and over again, the two of you becoming the only people in the world as the tidal wave of pleasure overwhelmed you.

Acacius' thrusts into your aching core sped, became less focused, and you knew he was losing control himself as you came apart underneath him. Your name fell from his lips as he pressed his hand further into the spot below your belly, where his cock seemed to bulge into his palm as your cunt pulsed around him.

"Such a good girl, such a good wife," he moaned. Only when your core could only twitch in response to his strong thrusts did he slow, leaning back over you and capturing your lips in a searing kiss.

A warmth pooled within you, evidence of his pleasure. You didn't know if you'd ever felt such an intimate connection with anyone as you did with him, his kiss burning a brand into your heart as the heat of passion faded.

Acacius pulled away after a moment, breathing heavily against your throat. "Hold still a moment," he warned. His palms pressed against your hips, his cock sliding from you with a slight sting. You followed his advice, your legs feeling weak and shaky.

You studied him as he crossed the bedchamber to the washroom, his broad back dimpling with the movement. Returning with a clean cloth and a faint smile on his lips, the dimple in his cheek made your heart swell as he saw your sprawled body on his massive bed.

"Feeling comfortable?" Acacius asked, eyebrows raised with amusement.

You nod, watching him as he crossed over to you, pressing a chaste kiss against your lips as he carefully wiped your messy core.

Breaking from your lips for a moment, he pressed his nose against yours, and you cherished the gentle, intimate gesture.

"Shall I call the servants for a hot bath?" Acacius mumbled, tossing the cloth aside.

"A hot bath sounds divine, but only if we may take one together," you reply, slightly giddy.

Acacius furrowed his brows in confusion. "What is making you laugh, my darling?"

You kissed him again, long and slow. Time stood still, and it was as if you could physically feel the bond forging between the two of you, forging in a slow burn of a crackling fire. It was warm, and easy, and comforting.

You broke away, studying him in his eyes. "You are simply... not what I expected."

Acacius smiled, that damn dimple curving in his cheek.

The most feared general on the continent.

Your husband.

Acacius kissed your forehead. "You, my darling, are everything I've been dreaming of."

---

taglist (people that asked to be tagged in part 2): @marianastudiesart @joeldjarin @fallout-girl219 @shantellorraine @lanadelslay69-420 @pedrofan

my request box is open! would love to hear y'all ideas for Joel, Acacius, Javier, or Oberyn :)

[trashmouth-richie]

dulcis ut rosa { sweet as a rose 🥀}

part 1 1/2– dulex (the gnat🥀) pt ii: vitiosus + deliciosus

pt iii: frangere me 🥀pt iv: ad caelum vel infernum, tecum sum

emperor Geta x female servant reader || word count: 4.4k || smidge of caracalla x reader

summary: brought to Palatine Hill as a gift from your village to the new Emperors— Caracalla claims you as his own, but Geta has his own plans for you when the moon crests into the sky.

tw: anal, p in v, rough inexperienced sex, oral m receiving, use of the word whore, caracalla is a whiny bitch, geta is fuckboy of the era. i googled a majority of the historical events, timelines, roman names for things, and latin translation— if it’s wrong, oh well. bad at feelings! geta, insane! crybaby! caracalla. idk geta is an unhinged mother fucker but what if he wasn’t so bad?

It had been months and many cycles of the moon ago when you were sent as a token of goodwill, a gift to the new Emperors in exchange for peace for the small village you resided in. 

Other Virgines and yourself were taken in the dark ebony of twilight, shackled side by side into the wobbly wagon driven by the village's strongest oxen. You didn’t dare object, instead you held your chin high, awaiting fate as the cart swayed this way and that, heart racing and blood pulsing as your journey to the Palatine Hill began. 

Some nights were still spent awake, remembering the crippling fear in your chest as you watched women from your village being gifted to generals as their personal servants. 

Some were given to soldiers as a sense of “release.” No better than a common whore being passed from soldier to soldier, fitting their needs.  The others were pillaged and picked like grapes from a cluster— and finally you had stood alone, defiance pooling in your eyes, pushing back traitorous tears.

Emperors Geta and Caracalla sat on ruby and gold twin thrones, identical in size and power. The tension between them was palpable— so thick you could reach out and stroke its ugly head. Where Caracalla’s grin was full of mischief, Geta had a snarl curled on his upper lip. 

You should have known then. The difference between them.

From where you stood, Geta’s dark eyes looked empty. Every so often they twitched as he spun the rings adorned on his left hand. His eyes rolled when his older brother giggled as the gifts from whatever poor village gave away their ripe, untouched women. 

Bare toes standing on the marble floor— unable to even grab shoes before you were heaved into the cart— you felt a heat from dark eyes that you were certain would drive someone mad if they dared look back. Like the boiling flames from hell itself were simmering in the coal of his irises. 

Caracalla jumped up, stepping forward from his throne, a wicked sense of evilness piercing from the iciness of his stare. His golden tooth caught the sun’s rays and you nearly vomited as he strode forward, eyeing you like a meal. 

A feminine laugh bubbled from his throat,  he clasped his hands together, bangles clanking in a sick harmony, a childlike grin spread on his pale face, “she’ll do.” 

You remember the first night in his chambers. Caracalla himself was bathed in ivory, same as the stone walls that were covered with flowing draperies. Although it was meant to be beautiful, the air felt choked, tight in your chest as you tried like hell to calm your frazzled nerves. 

The same giggle you heard in the throne room all morning now reverberated off the walls. He sat on a chaise lounge in only his dressing robes, sweat dampening his temples, that same damning stare as he slid his tongue over that disgusting gold tooth. Was he nervous? Drunk?

You had thought an emperor of his caliber would be used to this sort of thing. Maybe not. 

You had been cleaned by the palace servants, hair untangled and dirt scrubbed from under your nails. Hints of jasmine and honey perfumed from your gown as you tiptoed toward him. You watched as beads of sweat trickled down his brow, and he wiped at them hastily. 

“Sit.” 

The singular word seemed to give him trouble, as if he had never been in the presence of a woman before. 

He was clumsy, unthreading your gown with clammy hands, dragging across your skin like a damp sponge. Your skin crawled under his touch. 

His lips were stained with wine, thin and shriveled as he pecked at your skin. When you reached for him, hurrying this task along, he recoiled from your hand, shaking his head, a pained expression on his face as he held your wrist in a death grip. 

His eyes squinted shut and he screamed for you to leave. “Out!” “Get out!” Chalices and gold cutlery were tossed in your direction as you sprang for the door. 

Throwing open the heavy wood and running smack into the bare chest of the other Emperor. Emperor Geta. 

Although younger, he was taller than Caracalla. His chest was more broad, shoulders stretched tight with muscles. The same death-like stare on his face as he shoved you from him, having you stumble onto the stones into a wall. The cords of his neck strained as he took in your appearance.

He didn’t soften his features as you peered up at him with a fear stricken expression. He snarled, flaring his nostrils at the pathetic look of you, practically in rags. 

“Ah, and what do we have here? My brother’s whore in tears outside his chamber door. Can’t say I'm the least bit surprised.” He leaned into you, his eyes burning into your skin as he ripped the last of your gown to the floor, leaving you naked before him. 

“Tasteful thing, aren't you?” he gloated, pinching your bare nipple between his thumb and forefinger, laughing when you yelped in surprise and tried to cover your decency. 

He crowded into you, pushing your further down the hall way until you reached a dead end, his groin pressed into your middle. 

“Pathetic.” he sneered, enunciating every syllable the word held.  “Every single one of you.” His voice slithered like a snake against your ear, his breathing was forced, almost erratic and strained like he was holding himself back from bashing your skull into the wall. 

“Brought in here like some glorious stuffed hog on a spicket, trying to impress the Emperors so your village would be overlooked..” he clicked his tongue and grabbed the nape of your neck, his mouth only an inch from your own, “I don’t miss anything. Even though my sniffling brother may, I do not.” 

“Emperor, please.” 

“Do not speak!” he shouted loud enough to wake the entire palace, the veins in his neck stood at attention, throbbing,  “a whore will never open her mouth to me unless asked, or you are given something to fill it— understood?” 

You nodded feebly, a single tear trickling down your cheek. Geta placed the tip of his tongue to your skin catching the salty wetness, “if you can not please my brother, you will please me… otherwise what good are you here?” 

He shoved you to your knees, bits of sand biting into your skin as you hit the ground with a thud. His eyes were ablaze as he pulled out his cock. Veiny and impossibly thick, you’d never imagined one to be so large.  

Geta stroked himself, already hard and velvet beneath his palm, “open for your Emperor,” he demanded, the same snarl on his lip you noticed earlier today. 

You did as you were told, tongue out mouth agape waiting for him to slide against your mouth. Forcing himself inside, he filled it full until the pink head slithered into your throat, his groans vibrating through your bones. 

He rocked his hips into your face, panting and groaning some more as you gagged on his length— spit dripping down your bare chest and down his sack. 

He spoke nonsense to himself as you tried to breathe, squinting out tears from your eyes as you peered up at him. “The virgin mouth is fuck, yes, too good… impossibly sweet, untouched by another man, fuck, never get enough.” 

His large fist gripped your hair, pulling at the root as he bludgeoned himself further into you, fucking your head into the wall surely to leave a bruise or knock you unconscious, he wouldn’t care either way. 

“Stupid sniffling Caracalla,” he choked out between thrusts, “incompetent bastard wouldn’t know what to do with a whore if one fell on his cock,” he laughed and scrubbed at his face, reaching with his free hand to press the column of your throat, feeling himself deep beneath his thumb, “lucky for you, I do.” 

He came then, loud and shaky, holding you to him until your nose was tickled by his patch of dark pubic hair. He pulled out, leaving a pearl against his slit to rub against your mouth. 

“You might belong to Caracalla, but you will bow to me, and you… my sweet rosa, I have plans for you.” 

And that was how it started, how every night you would meet with Caracalla only to be summoned by Geta in the corridor upon your dismissal. Spilling secrets of his brother before pleasuring him with your mouth. 

In the light of day, you were ignored by him as you catered to Caracalla’s beck and call, and you often wondered if Geta had another servant he preferred during the sunlight hours. 

You were a midnight affair, a servant to one Emperor, a secret to the other. Caracalla was a strange man. Your time with him mostly was spent with him whining about the day's woes. 

How hard it was to be an emperor, the many expectations he had, the palace wasn’t large enough, his brother was too mean. Night by night his paranoia spread like wildfire, and he became gaunt, refusing to eat thinking Geta poisoned his food, his cheeks began to hallow. 

During all those nights he never once gave in to his own sexual temptations, he laid his head in your lap like an infant, whimpering and sniveling. One particular warm night you were sitting on his bed as you did every night before, listening to him sob about his mother and how he felt her attention was elsewhere. 

It took a single second of you being unresponsive for his switch to flip. Caracalla raged, flipping over furniture, ripping his draperies from the walls and pulling at his own hair. You were terrified, scared of him for the first time since the night you came to the palace. 

Caracalla bound your wrists above your head, and took force between your legs as you silently let him, disassociating from the entire situation, as he kissed a bruise to your collarbone, and scratched your thighs with his bitten fingernails. His inexperience was evident in his approach, in the way his hips held no rhythm, in the way he screeched like a midnight owl when he was close to release. 

He repeated the same thing over and over until he spilled against your stomach, a plea to either himself or to the Gods above, I am worthy. 

You shook violently, not with pleasure but with fear. You had thought of spitting in his face, but realized death would be your only future if you were to humiliate him during this catastrophic performance of what he would assume to be lust. 

Caracalla finished with a sweaty brow, laying down to fall asleep like a babe, an arm wrapped around your middle. A gaudy rouge colored his pale cheeks as drool slipped from his lips. 

You felt sick, defiled and disgusting. 

You’d rather be fucked by thirty men at once than have to endure that pathetic, cry baby fit from Caracalla. Gently placing his arm on the pillow, you fled. 

Missing your village, your family, the man who you were supposed to marry someday, your tears clouded your vision down the winding corridors of the palace. You would have fought to stay behind, should have pleaded to the men that you could be useful to them. This whore’s life isn’t what you had bargained for, death would be swifter— easier than this. 

The sweet scent of the balneum made you take a detour to the right, and you sobbed upon seeing the moonlight glint across the soft bathing water. 

Desperate to scrub his filth from your skin, the water was barely warm but you couldn’t care less as you sunk deep into the marble stone basin. Scrubbing your skin with anything your fingers could get ahold of. The jasmine soaps the servants washed you with the first time was tucked into its cradle and you slathered until your skin shined like an apparition. 

Tears dropped from the apples of your cheeks hitting the massive pool like a rainstorm over the ocean. Caracalla was a coward, a nuisance to Rome, to the Gods themselves. You damned his name as you scrubbed and lathered, repeating feverishly. 

For how long Geta stood in the doorway, you weren’t sure. You weren’t where you should have been, and he was irate upon your absolute disrespect of his time. He wanted to shout, plunge his way into the water and drag you out by your hair, bring you to the coliseum and make everyone watch your death against whatever animal he saw fit. 

You broke his rules, his laws, his heart raced with anger at the sight of you casually washing yourself. Nobody in the palace bathed in the moonlight, and when he heard commotion from the tepidarium room, he stomped towards it to find whoever the culprit was idiotic enough to disobey. He was alarmed to find you in there. Frantic, shooken up, no doubt from the hands of his flaccid brother.

“The lamb strayed away from the flock, I see.” his voice was like a snake, cool and calm but dripping with acidity that could kill at any given time. Jumping at his voice you nearly shrieked at his sudden appearance. 

“The moon has passed the mountains, yet you do not seek me out? Instead I find you here, helping yourself to the royal bathing quarters, as if you deserve such luxuries.”

Your voice trembled, as you climbed from the water, “I wanted… I needed to be clean.” 

His eyebrows twisted inward, confusion riddling his features until he stepped further into the room and noticed the marks across your skin. Caracalla’s mark. The marks of an hungry, untrained runt, trying to prove himself to the litter. 

Geta’s face boiled with sadistic rage as his eyes scanned down your body, the scratches of an novice beast unable to pleasure a whore. Bruises from a limp man who deserved a knife to his throat.

“Come.” he demanded, not waiting for you to follow as his stalked from the room, tossing a long cloth behind him to your awaiting hands. 

—

Water trickled behind you and down the length of your body as you padded on bare feet to catch up with Geta. 

This part of the palace was foreign to you, a set of stairs leading to a dark tower that you didn’t know existed, and then you realized why. He was leading you up to his chambers.

Geta and Caracalla lived on opposite ends of the palace, their hatred splitting them apart as far as it could allow. 

He thrust open a concealed door and stomped down a few stone stairs leading into his chamber. 

It was decorated in hues of deep ruby and scarlets, black linens flanked his walls. His bed was massive, alluring in the dark majesty of its presence. A single candle flickered beside his bed, casting shadows in the deep night. 

His hooded eyes seemed to strike with a ripple of psychotic light when he came back to the doorway to pull you inside by your wrist. 

Sitting on a lavish wooden chair he leans back, spreading his legs wide, reaching for a wine filled chalice downing it in one gulp, his eyes never leaving you. 

“Let me make myself clear,” he stated, “I do not care what Caracalla does in his chambers I never have nor will I now.” 

Geta wiped at his chin and set down the glass, his finger rounding the rim, “You came here knowing what your life would hold as an Emperor’s servant or a soldier’s fuck sack. The little amount of freedom you were once born with has vanished, and what a pity that must be…but quite honestly,” he gleamed leaning forward his face warmed by the light, casting shadows of evil on his brows, “I am not a savior to the fucked raw whores of this palace who weep after fulfilling their master’s needs.”

Your eyes casted downward at the patterned marble floor. “I told you the night we met that if you aren’t pleasing my brother or myself, you have no purpose here, did I not?” 

Your head shook up and down, knowing every word he said was true. 

“I will grant you gratitude where it is due by saying that you have done everything I have asked of you, sharing my brother’s secrets, using your mouth to fill my needs— it is all very pleasing…”

For the first time you look into Geta’s eyes, the shadows inside flicker with the candle light, and you are drawn to them like a moth. 

“… however, I find myself enraged thinking of that shriveled weasel dick not taking you to bed in a proper manner. It is not my style to fuck like a lover would—I use women to my needs and that’s it.” 

He rubs his jaw, as if the stubble was itching him, suddenly stopping to look at you dead in the eyes as his narrowed to slits, “but you, are a gnat. An annoyance I can not seem to get rid of, and I can’t decide if you are a woman version of the plague or something else…” His eyes glimmer for a second before he shakes his head to clear his mind, “Get on the bed.” 

“Emperor?” 

His voice boomed as he slammed down his cup, “do not make me say it twice, I find myself to be quite angry when I have to repeat my words.” His throat pulsed in wrath, and his knuckles turned white from his fists being clenched. 

You do as you're told, gingerly making your way to the enormous frame and mattress, sitting rigidly. Geta undresses himself, standing bare before you, that glorious length springing freely. 

“The difference between Caracalla and myself, is I know how to use my God bless-ed cock to pleasure a woman, and I’m damn good at it.” 

He’s on you in a flash, his breath sweet from the wine he had consumed. His body was solid on top of yours, pale skin never exposed to the sun. Enormous shoulders dressed in muscles that were hidden with robes daily. He sniffs loud, taking in your scent you feel his body shiver above you. 

His teeth nip at your earlobe, piercing through the flesh releasing a trail of hot blood onto your neck. It’s swiftly lapped away by his tongue, a low groan following as he tastes you. 

“If your blood is this sweet I would hate to know how you taste between your legs.” 

You squirm beneath him as he bites your lip the same way, his canines piercing your plushy flesh and he moves his mouth over the bites, enjoying the iron-like taste. A flood of wetness rushes to your core and you suddenly feel hot everywhere… something Geta doesn’t miss. 

“My brother’s whore is quick to becoming wet.” he says with a chuckle, sweeping his fingers between your folds, his rings collecting your arousal on his knuckles before he pulls them into his mouth,  “mmmm leave it to Caracalla to fuck a bitch when she’s drier than a well.” 

His mouth assaults your neck. Sweeping circling as he groans into you, his cock rutting against your sex as you pull him further into you, a hand coiled in his golden hair, yanking slightly, a traitorous moan escaping his lips. 

Your hips widen to try to sneak the tip of him into your cunt but he only laughs at your attempt.

“Look how desperate you are, pathetic thing… so eager to be filled by a man who knows how to fuck.” He groans when your nails scratch down his back, and he licks his lip to not get too carried away. 

That pitiful excuse for a human couldn’t satisfy his own hand, let alone a whore who begs to be brutalized.” You moan his name when he skims blunt nails around the peaks of your nipples, running his palms along your rib cage. 

“You're teasing me, Emperor, te necessito.” 

The snarl that seems to be a permanent fixture on his face curls on his lip, “begging is a good start, we both know how good you are on your knees, but I like the pity showing in your eyes, as if I’m your God.”

With that final word and title, Geta thrust himself into you, shredding your walls with each delicious inch of his cock buried inside of you. All breath is expunged from your lungs as you stare into the devil’s eyes, a chokehold to your own.

“Ora pro me, Deus meus, pray for me God,” he grunted as he pistoned back into your heat. Your screams filled his chambers, the tower shaking with seduction as he matched your shouts with grunts and moans of his own. 

He pawed at your tits, squeezing and claiming every inch of skin he could get his hands on. Your thighs were wrapped around his waist, your hips circling to meet his rhythms. A large hand wrapped tight around your throat, and you licked your lips letting a grin spread against them. 

Geta was leaned forward just enough for you to put a hand against his own throat, squeezing as tightly as you could. He wasn’t expecting this, wasn’t expecting someone to match his own sadistic fantasies.. let alone a commoner from a village he didn’t care to know the name of. 

His eyes embellished like a dark jewel in a burning hell before he snarled and backhanded your cheek. He had never been more turned on, practically fucking you stupid as the welts from his rings raised on your skin. 

“Puella pulchra, pretty girl,” Geta whispered into your ear after flipping you over, his cock wedged between your ass cheeks. “Mea es, mea es, you’re mine;  no one else’s.” 

His rings bit at your sides as he positioned your ass upwards, leaving his dental records in each cheek before slapping them hard in unison, mocking your yelp as he dribbled spit where he needed it to be. 

With no warning he entered your other hole at a bruising pace. You saw black when Geta bottomed out and you swore you were near passing out from the stretch of his giant cock stuffed tight inside of you. 

Your pussy throbbed to his commands as he pulled you by your neck with one hand, so your back was leaned against his chest. Thick fingers slotted themselves in the heat of your core until his rings were nestled against your clit. “How dare you let Caracalla have at you first, this cunt is too sweet, too sinful to not be mine.” 

Babbling along to everything he said you simply screamed yes over and over, as your head lolled back on his shoulder. You came so hot and bound tight that it flooded his fingers and spread down your legs as he kept pounding inside of you. 

“Oh fuck,” Geta grunted, shoving your forward to gain leverage on your hips as he pistoned into you a final time. A great yell breached his throat as his seed flooded your ass, filling it full and spilling over both himself and you, down to the laundered sheets. 

You collapsed onto his bed, legs shaking and quaking struggling to catch your breath. Geta fell onto his back beside you, his skin glistening with sweat, his release coated thickly on his softening cock and pasted into the curly hair. 

“Dulcis ut rosa,” he murmured with his eyes closed, licking his lips to savor your taste once more. 

Tumbling on shaky knees, you lift yourself up just enough to eye his length, wrapping your mouth around his cock, sucking off his spend and yourself from him. Moaning as you devoured him.  

He hissed at the contact, reaching out to stroke your cheek with his thumb “you’ve made a fool of me, you wicked thing, I’m nothing but a fool.” 

When you were finished, Geta laid in silence beside you. His thumb strumming along his torso his eyes wide staring into the ceiling, deep in thought. 

Noticing a decanter of wine you asked if he’d like another glass. “No,” he said, still staring upward, unable to look at you. “I’m tired, leave me now.” 

Removing yourself from the bed you find the dressing robe he was wearing when he found you in the bath and slipped it over your shoulders. 

Leaving his chambers left you feeling rotten. 

It was strange how he looked at you during and after, he was talented just as he said he was, and you knew you’d never forget the night the other Emperor bed you in his sheets. For tomorrow was another day, back to Caracalla and his blubbering whines of the hardships of royalty.

Geta lie awake for hours. Eventually seeking refuge on his balcony staring into the pale ivory moon, silently asking the Gods for answers he himself didn’t know. He had bedded hundreds of women. Every shape, size and color. But you. The little gnat. You had been buzzing in his ears every night since you had gotten to Palatine Hill. 

Since the day he laid his eyes on you and scoffed to try to denounce his admiration, Geta silently wished death on Caracalla when he claimed you as his own. His original plan was to spoil the apple from the inside out, use you as a spy to gain information about his deranged brother— but it became more to him, you became more. But why? 

The God’s didn’t have the answers tonight, just like they hadn’t the night before, or every dawn since the night you showed up here. Guilt struck him like a bolt from Jupiter’s mighty hand and he pushed it down with the remaining wine he had stashed beside his bed. 

The facaded mask he wore these days almost slipped off tonight when you lay beside him. How he wanted to reach out and touch your skin while you laid in euphoric bliss. And he shut you out to avoid something he couldn’t risk. He didn’t know how to love a woman, his love was for war and power, blood and gold— still the gnat buzzed, unrelentless. 

Laying in the sex sodden sheets, he knew what his dream would be of tonight. It hadn’t changed in the months of you arriving here: Caracalla dead by his hand, and you, the gnat, sweet as a rose…his empress.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

latin translation:

virgines— virgins

dulcis ut rosa— sweet as a rose

balneum— bathing room

te necessito— i need you

ora pro me deus meus— pray for me my God

puella pulchra— pretty girl

mea es— you’re mine

tagging some moots: @joejoequinnquinn @choke-me-eddie @etherealxwitch

[dark-and-kawaii]

Yuji stood just outside Nanami's and your home… his knuckles hovering over the wooden door, hesitant to knock. Each breath he took formed clouds of fog that hung in the air. He could feel it as he stood, felt the weight of his body and the chill that enveloped it. It felt heavy... Everything felt so impossibly heavy...

The silence that greeted his knock felt different, more final. Peeking through the window, he could see how still everything was, how quiet the house was for once, your usual playlist was absent, leaving an emptiness that seemed to echo… 

“Ohh~ Why hello there young man~!” 

A fragile voice had startled him from his thoughts. It was an elderly woman that emerged from behind the large rose bushes you and Nanami had planted together just last spring. She was small, barely reaching Yuji’s chest, her weathered hands trembling slightly on her cane as she shuffled closer. Her eyes held so much warmth- so much kindness and excitement that made Yuji’s chest tighten. 

“If you’re looking for Mrs. Nanami, she left in quite a hurry this morning~!” her voice quavered with joy, unaware of how each word drove daggers into Yuji’s grieving heart. “I’m not certain where Mr. Nanani is, but oh i do hope he made it in tim-”

“Please!” Yuji’s voice cracked, panic clawing its way up his throat, “Is she alright!?” His hands shook as images of curses and blood filled his mind of the worst possible outcome, “Where is she!?-” 

“Hush now, dear child,” The old woman's face softened into a gentle smile, “She’s at the hospital just down the way. The baby decided to come early!~” She clasped her hands together in delight, “I can hardly wait to see them come home- all three of them together! If it’s a boy, he’ll surely have his father’s handsome features!”

Yuji felt the world tilt beneath his feet. He bowed his head, shoulders hunched as if to shield his face from the truth he carried… Every word this woman spoke was another weight added to the crushing truth of what he knew- of what he had to tell you… His fingernails bit crescents into his palms, drawing blood he couldn’t feel though the numbness.

“Kento’s always been so quick to be by her side you know? it’s strange he wasn't there this morning, but ohhh~ I’m sure he was already at the hospital waiting for her~” The woman's voice continued, distant now, as if coming through water, “It must be nice having such a man like that, heavens sake, just last week when she was struggling with groceries he help-” 

Her voice faded into the background as memories flooded Yuji’s mind… How Nanami would adjust your scarf while the three of you were out on cold mornings, the way his usual stoic expression softened at the edges when glancing your way… The way his hand would absentmindedly touch your growing belly, as if to reassure himself you and his unborn child were still there… And now, because of one moment, one curse… he would never meet his child. Never know if they had his eyes, his smile, his quiet strength or your features and kind heart… 

At the hospital, through the crack in the door, Yuji saw how you were curled around your newborn daughter, your finger caught in her tiny grasp. The golden sunset painted you in a warm light, and despite your exhaustion, you were absolutely glowing…

“We did it, Kento,” your whisper carried through the door, “we have a beautiful baby girl.” Your smile, so pure and unaware, shattered what remained of his composure. “Hurry back from your mission so you can meet her… We’re waiting ♡.”

Outside your hospital room, Yuji stumbled back, tears burning trails down his cheeks as he bit his lip until it bled, trying to stifle the sobs threatening to break free. How could he tell you? How could he destroy this perfect moment with the truth that Nanami- your Kento, your daughter’s father- had been torn apart by a curse… How could he explain that your “waiting” would be eternal…?

He couldn’t. Not yet…

As he wandered the hospital halls, he noted all the beautiful details Nanami had ensured would surround you during this moment. The butterfly sanctuary, the library, the gardens. Even when it came to you birthing his child, Nanami had thought of everything- had wanted everything to be perfect for you.  

When Yuji finally entered your room, you were sleeping, your daughter nestled against your chest- a mother and child portrait of serenity. He noticed how your daughter’s wisps of hair caught the moonlight, the same shade as Nanami’s… The sight drove the air from his lungs. His body finally giving in and collapsing into the chair beside your bed, Nanami’s final moments- final words replaying in his mind… “You’ve got it from here, right? And please, watch over them.” followed by the visceral memory of blood spraying across the walls, of flesh tearing, of a good man’s last breath given to the thoughts of the family he’d never see again.

“Mmn’ Y-Yuji?” Your voice, still heavy with sleep, froze him in place, his heart stopping as your eyes fluttered open. “M’where’s Kento?” 

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by your daughter’s first cry- as if she somehow knew, somehow felt the weight of what was about to destroy her mother’s word forever… Yuji’s throat closed around the words he couldn’t say, tears spilling over as he faced the impossible task of telling you that Nanami Kento would never come home again… And then he saw it- watched how realization dawned in your eyes as the blood stained necklace with Nanami’s wedding band slipped from his pocket… 

[oepionie]

— "THE PRINCESS TREATMENT." various

SYNOPSIS: your boyfriend and the different ways he pampers and spoils you rotten ♡

⊹ [ cw ] — mentions of winter storms, prefect is implied to have bad living conditions, mild violence in the tweels parts, jade breaks someone's wrist, crowley slander, ace slander◞

⊹ [ tags ] — FLUFFY! feminine reader! no gendered pronouns used, riddle uses his dorm position to spoil you, seeing trey driving is very hot, deuce biceps, leona and azul sugar daddy era, ruggie would rather freeze to death than have you be cold, jack carries you, jade and floyd will fight for you, rook makes you his muse and paints you, malleus renovates the entire diasomnia dorm for you, sebek carries your pink handbags◞

⊹ [ characters ] — riddle, trey, deuce, leona, ruggie, jack, azul, jade, floyd, rook, malleus, sebek◞

⊹ [ w.c ] — 4.9k+◞ | 🦇masterlist◞

—♰ RIDDLE

Princess treatment, Like—literally

Loathe is Riddle to admit—He can't deny the fact that being his lover meant you got special treatment. Prime example being your position at unbirthday parties. At the banquet table, just beside Riddle's designated throne, was your throne. Similar in style, it had a heart-shaped crest and golden frame; the only difference was that it was milky white rather than deep red. And despite his best efforts to downplay the favoritism shown to you, Riddle knows for a fact that he had the throne commissioned himself.

꒰‧₊˚⚗️☆༉‧₊˚.

"Come with me." The dorm leader says as he moves towards you, leading you towards your throne. He didn't fail to notice how your legs shook slightly as you walked alongside him or how your hands didn’t leave his coat once. Not that he minded.

The redhead clasped your hands in his as he sat you down onto the leather seat before adjusting the train of your dress to ensure that it wouldn't bother you.

"How are you fairing?" Riddle asked softly, kneeling before you to slip a leather-clad hand behind your knees. He set your feet up on a plush stool and slipped your pointed heels off, gently caressing your ankles. "I overheard you earlier, griping about your feet aching. I certainly hope you're not pushing yourself too hard."

"Ah, no. I just chose the wrong heels today. They're too pointy." You sighed, poking at your crimson red heels, which were discarded to the grassy sides. Groaning, you reclined back on your throne, the billowing, fluffy skirt of the dress Riddle had recently gifted tumbling all about you.

"I see." Riddle nodded in understanding, taking your hand and pressing a quick gentlemanly kiss on your wrists. "The croquet game is up next. I suppose you'd rather stay here?"

"Yeah, I think I need some alone time," you sigh. Riddle squeezes once more your hand in reply, letting his eyes shut in contemplation.

"Very well," He hums, moving to gently tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. "Do rest here a while, rose."

There was a soft smile as the leather of his hands glide across your back. "Oh, and, please let a member of my dorm know if you ever need anything. Worry not. I've instructed everyone here to be at your beck and call."

───────────────────── · ·

— ♰ TREY

Passenger princess treatment<3

Every weekend, it was routine for Trey to whisk you away from your beaten-up dorm. After all, he was sure it was nice to spend the day in a place where you weren't inhaling dust and spiders every second. Both of you would always go over to his parent's café in the city for a simple little brunch date. And without fail, Trey would always pick you up at 9am sharp by the school gates.

꒰‧₊˚⚗️☆༉‧₊˚.

"… I was made for lovin' you, baby

You were made for lovin' me

And I can't get enough of you, baby

Can you get enough of me?"

Soft music played from the car's radio as the third-year weaved through the barren intersections, careful and slow. It seems as if the roads were merciful to you both today, calm and free of any traffic.

Trey languidly reaches one of his hands, calloused from his years of baking, over to rest gently on your thigh. His thumb rubs soft circles and nonsensical patterns over your plump skin while the other gripped the steering wheel in a loose hold, biceps flexing as he twisted the wheel to turn the car.

Focused as he was, you didn't miss how his gaze flits back and forth between the road and you, the expression swimming within them almost akin to a distant longing.

You place your hand atop his and lean against the passenger door. A wide grin spreads over your glossy red lips as you shake your head playfully. "Keep your eyes on the road."

Mirthful laughter spills from your mouth before your eyes flutter shut as you sway along to the song, mindlessly kicking your legs around. "Crashing and going to the hospital doesn't really sound like a good date idea."

A pensive smile creeps up on Trey's face, and he lets out a low chuckle. "Yeah? I just can't help it. You're a much more interesting sight."

He watched as the sun's dazzling light bathed your image in a beautiful, pleasant glow. To him, you looked ethereal, seemingly glowing and shining under the golden streaks of sunlight that pour through the windshield.

"What did I just say?" you sighed, smiling cheekily as you smoothed a hand over his clover-colored hair, fixing the stray strands moved askew by the wind from the open windows. "Hello~? Wonderland to Trey? Eyes on the road?"

He paused for a while before chuckling, his hands splaying out on the steering wheel as he turned his gaze back front. "Right, right. I'll be careful, princess."

───────────────────── · ·

— ♰  DEUCE

Carries your things for you and will not let you do any heavy lifting at all plus he buys you drinks!

Screw Crowley Dire. You were sick of Ramshackle's awful, scratchy furniture. For once, you wished you could sit on something that wasn't littered with dust bunnies or looked like it came straight from the depths of the underworld—no offense to Idia. And so, using the money you had painstakingly saved over the last six months, you decided to buy a cute, frilly sofa.

Problem was—you couldn't lift it at all. It was too wide and heavy for your poor untrained arms. Fortunately for you, your boyfriend was more than happy to help ^^

꒰‧₊˚⚗️☆༉‧₊˚.

"Um…Deuce? Are you sure you don't want me to work?" Perched atop the kitchen counters, you were worriedly staring down at him.

While he was preoccupied with lifting the couch, you were lazily sipping on a bubble tea—a drink which he bought for you himself. Humming, you let your gaze move from the soft line of his cheekbone, to the sharper cut of his jaw, before resting it onto the thick of his arms. " I don't mind helping, you know."

Deuce was standing by the door, arms tucked beneath the couch as he braced himself for lifting. "Yeah, I got this. Don't worry."

Now, why was he here, exactly? Well…First off, you didn't intend to call him at all.

In the middle of trying to haul your couch into Ramshackle's entrance, Deuce had appeared out of nowhere, offering his help. Despite your vehement denial, the stubborn boy wouldn't take no for an answer, and eventually forced you to sit down, shoving the bright, bubbly drink in your hand without saying a word.

So, here you were. Shamelessly ogling at him while he tried to find a way to bring the couch in.

"Are you sure? I don't want you to get hurt—Oh!" You gasped, hand flying up to cover your agape mouth when Deuce easily lifted it up as if it were made of air. In response to your expression of astonishment, he grinned and playfully flexed his arms. "See?"

While Deuce set the couch down in front of the TV, you slipped off the counters and strode over to him. Jumping into his embrace, you draped your arms around his shoulder and pressed a big kiss on his cheeks, watching in delight as his face exploded in pink. "You're so strong! Thank you so much!"

Deuce let a wobbly smile stretch across his burning cheeks, his hands slack atop your hips. "Y-Yeah! No problem."

───────────────────── · ·

— ♰ LEONA

Sugar dad-I mean-financial help<3 + Hints at passenger princess treatment

Leona Kingscholar was not a romantic. Naturally, he has stayed to himself ever since he was little. This lion was not the kind to be sentimental, gooey, or emotional. So it is astonishing how quickly this stone-cold personality of his breaks down when he's around you.

Every little thing you do drives him into a lovesick frenzy, and he has no idea how to stop it. He wasn't particularly into grand displays of affection or romantic gestures. Ergo, in an effort to express his adoration, he turns to more…costly methods.

꒰‧₊˚⚗️☆༉‧₊˚.

"Tell me what you want." Leona demands, tone serious as he wraps a rough yet protective arm around your hips. Both of you were standing smack dab in the middle of a large shopping mall. Though the more you stood here, the more you began to realize that this place wasn't really your…ordinary mall.

First and foremost, when Leona pulled up, there was private parking, and that was already intimidating to you in and of itself. Second, it seems like every single store in here was a luxury brand. You've seen a couple of these logos plastered onto the tags of Vil's or Jade and Floyd's clothes.

As a matter of fact, you were pretty sure their plastic bags cost more than your entire yearly allowance combined.

"Ah, um…"  A nervous sweat built up on your brow as you fished your wallet out, peering into what little funds you had. "Leona, honey—I just needed to get some school supplies…Is there a different mall we can go to?" You sheepishly smiled up at him. "I don't think I can afford to get anything here."

Silence immediately follows as Leona stares at you with a dumbfounded look. Blinking bluntly, he scoffs. "Who said you were paying?"

"Hu-Huh?" You stammered, fiddling with your wallet. The lion's eyes were ripped wide open in shock, as if the mere thought of you spending your own money on your own things was a criminal act. Something so ludicrous that even a person with his deceptive persona finds it distasteful.

"Ain't it obvious already? I'm paying," Leona huffs, dragging you to a nearby jewelry shop. Behind the glass were displays of glittering pearls and jewels, each of which had delicate and intricate carvings. "And we're gettin' more than stationary."

"But-!" You start, only to get interrupted as his calloused hand clamps over your mouth.

"No buts."

───────────────────── · ·

— ♰  RUGGIE

Giving you his coat when you're cold and just being sickeningly sweet<3

Ruggie was used to working for others, and this habit of his pours over to you. Though it wouldn't take long for people to notice that his acts of labor was…different with you.

For others, Ruggie works because there's an exchange, a benefit, or a payment for him. For you, however, he does things with no motive in mind. He would never ask for more because he genuinely didn't need anything more, and if he ever did, a simple kiss or hug from you would be plenty.

꒰‧₊˚⚗️☆༉‧₊˚.

It was a frigid winter day and both of you were walking to school together, a routine you both developed over the past few months. As you followed him through the deep snowfall, the cold wind nipped and bit at your skin, making you shudder. Despite the struggle, you push on, the rough pads of your boots dragging along the thick blankets of snow.

Unfortunately for you, the flimsy cardigan you bought at Sam's did nothing to keep your body safe from the cruel winter.

While Ruggie's oversized warm coat helps kept him sufficiently warmed up, you, on the other hand, are struggling. You know you should have gotten a thicker coat, but this was all you could afford last minute.

Ever so caring, your boyfriend is quick to notice this and turns back around, trudging through the snow to meet you.

"C'mere," Ruggie drags you into his embrace and starts to slowly inch the coat off his shoulders. With your form now pushed against his body, he takes the chance to press a soft kiss against your cheeks. At the exchange of affection, both of you erupt in soft giggles, lovesick grins stretched across your lips.

The moment feels intimate, loving, and safe.

"Here ya' go." Suddenly he's engulfing you in his thick cloak and zipping it up. Protesting, you try to give it back, but all he does is snicker and shake his head. He peppers warm kisses on the side of your bare frostbitten neck, relishing in the giggles that spill from your lips. "Keep it. I can handle the cold. I'm used to it but I can't have you freezin' out here, now can I?"

───────────────────── · ·

— ♰  JACK

Carries you when your feet start to hurt, tee hee

Jack was strong and well-disciplined. He's worked hard and trained himself to peak physical condition, yet even then, he's continually seeking to improve himself even more. He's tried it all: fitness routines, weight lifting, and sports. And it pays off.

His strength has proven useful in a variety of circumstances. from physical education classes, sporting events, marathons, and, strangely enough, carrying you when your heels begin to hurt your feet.

꒰‧₊˚⚗️☆༉‧₊˚.

Jack looks around the booths as he takes your hands in his, pulling you along the festival crowds, "Hm. I think the takoyaki stand is around here. You were craving that earlier, right?" If it weren't for the intense dull ache at the bottom of your ankles, you would have been delighted to hear about the delectable octopus snack.

Instead, you hissed and pulled on the beastman's hand, halting to a stop, unable to take the torture of your heels any longer. "Jack, hold on a second."

Groaning, you slouch down on a nearby bench and kick off your heels, scowling at the dull throb that's pressing itself against the back of your foot. Jack quickly knelt down by your side, ears alert and tail swishing.

"What's wrong?" He questions as he drags your legs over to rest on top of his firm thighs. "Do your feet hurt?"

"Yeah," you sigh. "I kinda regret putting on heels at a festival like this…I didn't realize it would hurt so bad. I just wanted to look cute."

The wolf ponders for a moment before swiftly turning around, presenting his back to you, "Get on."

"Eh?" You blinked, tilting your head to the side. Jack looks away, keeping his head tilted to the ground as a dark flush swept over his skin. "I'll carry you…I-If your feet hurt, I won't mind carrying you."

"Oh!" Smiling, you slip onto his back and wrap your arms snug around his neck. Jack clutches your heels in one hand while the other grasps onto your thigh. The beastman easily stands up, supporting both his and your weight as he heads towards the food stands.

"Who knew you were such a softie, Jack! Hehe." You tease, pressing a kiss against the side of his neck. The beastman flushed even more, avoiding your gaze at all cost.

"Tch. I-I don't go around doing this for anyone."

───────────────────── · ·

— ♰  AZUL

Sugar dad-I mean-financial help<3 #2

Azul lived to spoil you.

For you, the octo-mer gleefully buys mountains of clothing. Your entire wardrobe has been thoughtfully planned by him (and often rapidly purchased, Floyd is always the victim to his 12am shopping whims).

Other than clothing, he's also quite fond of jewelry. He clasps pure pearls to your ears, drapes diamonds over your neck, and slips rings onto your fingers. It would be the highlight of Azul's day to see the items he had purchased for you proudly displayed for all the students on campus to see.

꒰‧₊˚⚗️☆༉‧₊˚.

"Shall we?" he asks softly as he wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you up from your chair. The smooth white silk of your dress cascades off the plush leather seat, draping down to your ankles. Azul swiftly guides you away from the lounge, signaling at both Floyd and Jade in the corner to clean up before turning his attention back to you, once more. "I hope the food was to your liking, angelfish?"

"Oh, it was," you confirm, a smile playing on your lips. Leaning up, you press a warm kiss against his lips, one which he returns. "Thank you for the wonderful night, Azul! The dress as well. It looks beautiful."

"Why, of course." The octo-mer hums, running his hand up your back. As he slips both of you into his room, he shuts the door with his foot and guides you to his vanity. "Though I do have one last gift."

"Another?" You chuckle, "Don't you think you spoil me too much? I don't want it to seem like I'm leeching off of you…"

"No, you could never," Azul says as he motions you to a seat near the table of his vanity. The octo-mer reaches over and opens a drawer, revealing a nice velvet box.

As the box is opened, a gorgeous sea-glass necklace with a stunning silver-coral colour is exhibited to you. It sat prettily atop a white plush pillow, winking at you. Azul deftly runs a hand up your neck to pull your hair back and your lips parts in a "o" when he clasps it on.

"Azul," you breathlessly murmur. "I can't possibly—This must have cost a fortune."

"It's for you," Azul smiles. "Only for you."

───────────────────── · ·

— ♰  JADE

You have scary eel privileges'

It was not uncommon for Jade to come knocking at your door in opportune times of the night to accompany you out for a walk. You mentioned once how you loved stargazing and Jade hasn't let that go since. For he too had always carried a fondness for the night, more specifically, the moon.

It was constant, a repetitive lustrous cycle, and despite his thrill seeking nature, he took comfort in its consistency. Walks with you were the highlight of his week, and he certainly does not take interruptions from pesky little bugs lightly.

꒰‧₊˚⚗️☆༉‧₊˚.

The night sky above Ramshackle was littered with painted specs of sparkling stars, burning brightly amidst the gradients of blue and black. Jade had a firm hand situated by the small of your back, gently guiding you along the dirt path of the trail.

"It's so beautiful…" You murmur in astonishment, craning your head up to peer up at the canvas of stars. Chuckling, Jade tugs you in closer to slip his large jacket over your shoulders. "I'm glad you like it, pearl. I do hope it's not too cold?"

"Not at all."

Both of you continue along your hike, going deeper and deeper into the thick, dense forest. As you trudged on, a bundle of wild mushrooms caught your eye and you halted to a stop, recognizing the patterns and spots on the fungi in a book Jade had once shown you.

"Wait here a moment. I just saw those mushrooms you wanted so bad. I'll go get it!" Before Jade could even reply, you were already off, sneaking past tall bushes and prickly trees. 

Just as you were about to pick your first mushroom, a low growl interrupts you. Freezing, your eyes dart upward to see a Savanaclaw student towering over your form. 

He did not seem happy.

"Oya? You're that Ramshackle punk, aren't you?…I have to say, Leona let you off real easy after that little spy mission you did in our dorm." He sneers, rolling the joints of his shoulders and moving closer, backing you up against a tree. "That's all good with me…Cuz' If he won't do something bout' it, then I will."

Suddenly, he was drawing his fist back, aiming for you. The sudden shift happened so quickly that all you could do was flinch and hunch over, preparing yourself for a hit.

Only for it to never come.

"My, my," a familiar voice muses. Breath hitching in your throat, you peek up and see Jade looming behind the boy. The eel's hand was coiled tight around the beastman's wrist, clasping tighter and tighter until there was a sickening snap. 

"How foolish of you to think I would allow that."

───────────────────── · ·

— ♰ FLOYD

You have scary eel privileges' #2

Floyd was a lot softer and caring than a lot of people would give him credit for. That or he just gives you special treatment. After all, the big bad eel found you endearing. You were his one and only beloved little shrimpy. 

You were the one who stood by him even when others dismissed him as strange or frightful because you loved and adored him wholeheartedly. So, he can't help but be protective of you.

Nothing will ever hurt you so long as he's by your side.

꒰‧₊˚⚗️☆༉‧₊˚.

"Shrimpy? What're you doing here?"

Sniffles and cries wreck your chest as you curled up on Floyd's bed, clutching his shrimp plush tight in your arms. Said eel was standing by the door, a look of shock plastered onto his features before it turned ice-cold as he approached your weeping form.

"My poor shrimpy…" Floyd rasps, tugging off his gloves to cup your wet cheeks with his big hands. "What's wrong with my shrimpy? Did someone do this? I'll squeeze 'em if they did."

The eel crawls into bed with you, tugging the plush out of your arms and slipping himself into your embrace. Soft warm kisses are peppered on your wet cheeks as Floyd coos at you.

Sobbing, you raise a hand to furiously wipe at your eyes before exclaiming, "It's Grim again! Why does he have to be so difficult?! I worked so hard for my alchemy exam, but it seems like he doesn't care! He's brought our grades down again!"

"It's that cat of yours again, huh?" Floyd clicked his tongue, thumb pressing against the corner of your teary eyes. He pressed a warm palm to your cheek, examining your face with close inspection as he slowly reached for your hand and set it down atop his beating heart. "No worries. Just let it all out, shrimpy. I'll have a talk with the baby seal later hehe~"

You sniffed and brushed his comments aside as you pulled away from the embrace, an action which made him pout. "…I'm not sure he'd even listen. Grim is as stubborn as a rock." 

"We'll see about that, shrimpy." Floyd scoffs, a frown on his face clearly visible as he pulls you closer once more.

"Yanno, I'm pretty good at alchemy myself." Floyd chirps, a dark grin slowly stretching across his cheeks. "I'm sure the baby seal won't mind having a private tutor session with good ol' me."

───────────────────── · ·

— ♰ ROOK

This man WORSHIPS the ground you walk on.

As they say, "Before you die, experience the love of a writer, poet or painter. If you're lucky enough to be an artist's muse, they will immortalize you." Such a muse you were to Rook.

Though it would take quite a lot of coaxing before he could have the pleasure of having you as his muse, at the rare moments you did agree—Rook did his utmost best to do you justice on the canvas.

꒰‧₊˚⚗️☆༉‧₊˚.

Portraiture looked into the life of the subject, revealed what was hidden deep inside, and examined it. With his hunter-like manner, Rook was all too acquainted with this study.

"A-Am I doing this right?" You murmur, trying your best not to move around as you held a bouquet of daisies up to your chest. There was a cream-tinted dress draped across your body as you reclined against the backdrop Rook had set up.

"Oui. Such beauty in your gaze, trickster. Angels lurk behind your eyes." The hunter flirts, resolute gazed locked onto your flustered ones as he drags his brush against the palette. There was an experiment with the hues for a time before he blended a few other colors.

"I cannot thank you enough for allowing me to do this." As he'd found the color he wanted, Rook turned back to you. He took careful note of every nuance and detail of your glowing visage and committed as much as he could to memory. Rook knew he’d have to make your portrait perfect. He simply couldn’t allow for anything else.

"You're very persistent," you huff with a small smile on your face. "I had to cave in eventually, huh?"

"But, of course!" Rook cheekily grins, turning his attention back to the canvas. "I can't let a chance like this pass me by."

Time passed and layers upon layers of color came together to form the picture he sought after. Out to the right, spread across a lush sofa, was your incandescent form. And he surely didn't hold back on the details. The creases in the fabric, the curve of your smile, and the contours of the plush pillows scattered on either side of the plush crimson sofa all draw the eye.

It was a large painting that he had boldly placed in Pomefiore's living room, much to Vil's chagrin. Try as he might, the dormleader couldn't get the hunter to remove it at all.

───────────────────── · ·

— ♰ MALLEUS

Princess treatment? pff. That's cute. No, it's queen treatment to him.

You had a bad tendency of rambling on about whatever that came to mind, often without realising that another person was in the same room as you. Even if you initially didn't mind this little quirk of yours, recent events have made you realise that you should probably curb your mouth-running.

Even more so considering that your partner, caring as he was, had a tendency to be quite…impulsive. Especially when it comes to matters concerning your comfort and well-being.

꒰‧₊˚⚗️☆༉‧₊˚.

Malleus was flipping through a catalogue of colour samples and scrutinizing each texture with careful judgment. Slipping the page into your hands, he murmurs, "This is all rather lovely. Perhaps a dark crimson will suffice. Or would you like this wine red dye, my dear?" The dragon looked at you, patiently awaiting your response.

Only for there to be none.

You stood awkwardly at his side, your cheeks flaming up with shame. Tugging at his coat, you rose up on your tiptoes and whispered quietly, "Tsunotaro…when I whined about it being cold, I didn't mean for you to go this far."

"Oh?" He quirks a brow up, "Do you not like these colors?"

"Mal," you utter gently, handing the catalogue back to him. "I don't really think we need to—"

"Young Master. If I may," Sebek interrupts, voice raising to a strained high squeak, "Please do tell. Why are we replacing every.single marble floor in the dorm…with carpet?"

Malleus draws you in his arms, all while ignoring the enraged stare painted on Sebek's face. "My darling's feet become frigid cold when they walk along the marble flooring. I think it's due time for it to get redone," he says while running his hands tenderly up your back and gazing at you with a ghost of a smile on his lips.

Sebek blinks, a strained smile sneaking up on his cheeks, "Well. I'm sure they can use slippers—"

"Nonsense." Malleus snarls, eyes flashing a luminous green. "How dare you even think of subjecting them to such a ludicrous act. Hmph. Using…slippers—How preposterous." 

"No. I think my way is much better." Shaking his head, Malleus turns back to the catalogue—paying no mind to the grief-stricken look on his retainer's face. "Now dearest, do you think burgundy would look good in the kitchen?"

───────────────────── · ·

—♰ SEBEK

Carries your sparkly pink purses for you, slay king<3

Sebek was not a fool. The fae was well aware he could be a bit…much at times. And even if he doesn't express it, he really values your nearly infinite patience with him. 

The boy was awkward at affection, and this is especially highlighted when it comes to anything involving romantic gestures. Even though your snappy crocodile was hard-headed and stubborn at times, he still showed you how much he cared in his own little ways. Even if it were something as simple as carrying your sparkly pink bag around the campus.

꒰‧₊˚⚗️☆༉‧₊˚.

"You ought to have known better than to jest so lightly about Diasomnia that way!" Sebek barks out, a leather-clad finger digging deep into Ace's chest. However, as opposed to being upset as Sebek had anticipated, the ginger chortles, muffled giggles sneaking past his clamped up lips.

"Sebek, buddy." Ace wheezes out, shoulders shaking from the strain of his suppressed laughter. "It's kinda hard to take you seriously…wh-when you have that."

The Heartslabyul runt gestures towards your designer purse, which was snugly resting against Sebek's bicep, slung over his shoulder. 

It was quite the eye-catcher. The sparkling pink diamonds of its handle twinkled a bright brilliant white, so bright in fact that it was almost blinding. 

Epel takes notice of the logo and crocodile keychain attached to it and he perks up.

"Oh, it's one of those girly-lookin' designer bags Vil is always yappin' about," Epel points out, squinting his eyes to get a better look at it. "Ain't that the prefect's bag?"

Unfazed by Ace's mocking, Sebek scoffs arrogantly, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Indeed, it is. As a knight-in-training, it is only right for me to possess the quality of a gentleman. Chivalrous acts like this are nothing to be ashamed of." He abruptly snapped his head over to glower at Ace, who was sitting rather comfortably in the cafeteria bench, crossing one leg over the over as he met Sebek's irritated stare. "Not that I anticipate someone like you to ever have experience with it.."

Sebek then rose from the table and strode boldly in the direction of your classroom, the pink bag swinging with each heavy step he took. Epel was leaning over the table, placing a shaky hand on Ace's shoulder as loud laughter racked through his body.

"Darn' right," Epel cackles, wiping the tears away from his eyes before turning to the ginger. "Nice ta' see someone still has sum chivalry…Unlike you, Ace."

The ginger visibly deflates, rolling his eyes as he mutters, "Yeah, yeah. We get it. He's down bad."

—TAGLIST:

꒰ ♡🧷: if you want to be tagged for ALL of my works, comment here!

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[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Choiceless Hope in Grief

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Angst, smut. Word count: ~2k

Summary: Following the events of Rook's Rest, Aemond seeks refuge in the only person he has left.

Author's note: Day five of Smuffmas - fireplace and face fucking. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

“He is waiting for you,” Lysa informed her, poking her head through the gap in the soft linen of the curtains that afforded her privacy while she bathed.

She sighed at the interruption, loathe to be pulled from the relaxation that the warmth of the jasmine infused water afforded her. Taking her time was a luxury she often indulged in, her rank and demand within Mother’s allowing her to keep her clientele waiting. However, this particular patron was one that insisted upon punctuality, and his status ensured no leniency for this particular rule.

The steam that wafted up from the tub obscured her view slightly as she peered over her shoulder at the serving girl. “Has he been prepared?” she asked, not wanting to rise from the water until absolutely necessary.

“Yes,” Lysa nodded, “exactly as you instructed. And he has had his draught,” she added, lifting up the empty tray that perched precariously upon her upturned palm, as if to emphasise her point.

“And the payment?” she enquired, turning away and leisurely lifting a leg from the bath, pointing her toes up towards the ceiling and watching as the wetness of her skin glistened in the candlelight.

“Paid up front,” Lysa informed her, “two golden dragons and a silver stag.”

She raised an eyebrow, her leg dropping back into the bath with a splash as her lips parted in surprise. That was more than double what he usually paid her. “Any particular requests?” she asked, attempting to mask the apprehension in her voice, as nerves fluttered in her belly. When patrons paid so handsomely, it was usually in anticipation of services that were considered illicit, even for the Street of Silk.

“Just the usual,” the serving girl replied, shifting from foot to foot with impatience, “shall I tell him you need a minute?”

“No need,” she insisted, with a dismissive wave of her hand, “I shall be there momentarily.”

Lysa disappeared from the gap in the curtains, and she rose slowly from the tub as water dripped down the curves and planes of her naked body in rivulets. She didn’t bother to dry herself – high status clientele often preferred tangible proof that the women they had purchased for the evening were clean. She draped a silk robe of emerald green around her body, tying it closed at the waist; the fabric clung to her dampened curves, accentuating the shape of her breasts and hips. She pulled her hair free of the clasp that held it fastened to the back of her head, allowing it to fall in soft, loose waves around her shoulders. She would ordinarily go to the effort of braiding it, however, with the considerable amount that had been paid for her time this evening she decided that it would not be wise to keep him waiting any longer.

Sliding her feet into slippers, she walked quickly through the pleasure house. The heady scent of fragrant oils and incense hung in the air, doing little to mask the pungent aroma of sex and sweat, instead they clung together, creating an oppressive feeling of humidity.

Moans of pleasure, giggles and the slap of flesh against flesh floated out from each curtained partition as she passed, the thin drape of fabric doing little to protect anyone’s modesty, though all occupied within were too far gone in their carnal acts to mind.

Since having been burst in on by his brother and his retinue a month ago, the man she would be entertaining this evening had insisted upon more private quarters for his subsequent visits. He had been granted use of Madame Sylvi’s personal bedchamber for the services he paid for – an unusual privilege for paying customers, but one that Sylvi had been more than willing to offer to ensure his continued custom.

She pushed into the room, the warmth of the lit hearth heating her still wet skin as she stepped inside, allowing the wooden door to close heavily behind her. Though Sylvi had gone to great lengths to decorate the room with vibrant coloured silks, plenty of candles and plush sheepskin rugs, it did little to distract from its modest size. The space was just large enough for a double canopy bed, a modest table and chair, and the small fireplace that was kept lit day and night to keep out the chill and scare away the rats.

There he was, just as Lysa had said he would be. His pewter cup had been drained of the milk of the poppy it had once contained and now sat upon the table. He knelt, stripped bare, in front of the cracking fire – Prince Aemond Targaryen – the most fearsome dragon rider in all of Westeros, kneeling before a common whore as though their roles had been reversed. In this room they were, at least that was what he paid her for.

She allowed her eyes to linger upon his lithe, yet chiseled physique. Though his hair was loose, hanging in long, silver strands around his sharp features, it did little to obscure the sapphire which sat snugly within his left eye socket - the gemstone glimmered in the firelight, reflecting the dancing of the flames.

She stepped in front of him, gazing down upon him as she crooked a finger beneath his chin, encouraging him to look at her. She could tell from the lack of focus within his seeing eye that the opiates had begun to take their effect, and this pleased her; he was always so stiff, much too closed off before it did, which made her job harder. He was more pliant like this.

His hands reached up to rest upon her hips and he pressed his face into her lower belly, cuddling tightly into her, the tip of his nose flush against her soft flesh. She moved her hand away from his chin, bringing it to rest upon the crown of his head and gently stroked his hair. They remained like that for several moments, the only sound in the room was the occasional crack of a log on the fire.

“They have made me prince regent,” he finally said, his voice muffled against her robe. He pulled back to gaze up at her, his expression was soft, almost tired looking, “are you proud of me?”

Her eyes studied him carefully, taking in the darkness beneath his eye sockets. She knew that for Aemond to be made regent, the king would need to be indisposed, but Aegon had been in excellent health on the many occasions he happened upon this particular establishment in recent weeks. “How did you come to be made prince regent?” she asked softly, trailing her fingertips along his prominent jawline.

Aemond’s eye fluttered closed as he leaned into her touch. She watched the bob of his throat as he swallowed, before looking up at her once more. He answered as a child would when being asked who spilled their milk. “He fell from his dragon,” he said simply.

“How?” she pressed more insistently, tilting her head slightly as she stared intently down at him.

“He was in the way,” Aemond whispered, snuggling his face back into her belly, his grip on her hips tightening ever so slightly.

“In the way of what?” 

She combed her fingers through his hair, watching how the paleness of it shone in the firelight. It was easy to envision how Targaryens considered themselves to be closer to gods than men, when their hair resembled spun silver.

“He was not supposed to be there,” he murmured against her robe, “he would have ruined everything, Rhaenys would have killed him.”

A pit of dread formed in the pit of her stomach at the mention of Rhaenys. She had seen the dragon’s head that had been paraded through King’s Landing, an ill omen if ever there was one. Of course Aemond would have been the one responsible, not Aegon. She felt foolish for not having realised sooner.

“So, what did you do?”

“I burned him,” he replied simply, pulling back to gaze up at her once more, “and I will burn you too if you tell anyone.”

It made her blood run cold how effortlessly the threat tumbled from his lips, how little awareness he had of the consequences of his actions or the true weight of the power he wielded. It was almost childlike to witness, which made it all the more terrifying.

“I will not tell a soul,” she reassured him, cupping his cheek, “but you must realise that what you did was wrong. Did you want to kill your brother, so that you could take his place?”

He lowered his gaze, his brow furrowing as he looked pensive for a moment. “I…no…no, I do not think so. I just wanted him out of the way. But I am better suited to rule than he is, and I will never even get to wear a crown.”

“Be that as it may, even princes cannot simply take whatever they please whenever they please.”

“My own mother thinks I tried to kill him,” he said, looking back up at her, “I see how she looks at me, she is afraid of me. She said I am too impulsive to rule.”

“And what do you think?”

One of his hands moved from her hip, slipping inside the opening at the bottom of her robe and gently stroked her thigh, causing a shiver to run through her. Her core throbbed in anticipation for what she knew he was silently asking for. “I want only what’s best for her. To protect my family. To win this war.”

“That is good,” she whispered, and gave his hair a tug at the roots, making him hiss through his teeth. “Now show me just how good you can be.”

She widened her stance slightly, allowing her thighs to part, as she urged him forward by his hair. He went eagerly, pulling open her robe and using his thumbs to spread open the damp folds of her sex. A groan reverberated through his chest as he swiped a broad stroke with the flat of his tongue against her sensitive flesh, causing her to sigh softly, her head tilted back slightly.

“That’s it. Good boy,” she urged, holding him in place by the back of his head as she ground her hips against his face, working herself upon his tongue as he flicked the tip of it feverishly against her swollen pearl.

The sensation made her thighs tremble, the steadily building ache made it an effort to stand, and she wondered fleetingly how he was not uncomfortable having knelt for so long. The thought was immediately pushed from her mind as he latched his lips upon the delicate bundle of nerves and suckled hard. She mewled, bucking her hips, anchoring him to her with the vice like grip she held upon his roots.

His hands moved to her hips once more, holding her steady as he plunged his tongue inside of her, the tip of his nose adding additional stimulation to the outer parts of her, as he thrust the muscle into her repeatedly. Her skin grew hot and clammy with exertion, exacerbated by the crackle of the flames within the hearth.

The coil within her grew taut, and as though sensing it, he pulled out of her with a lewd squelch of saliva and arousal, redoubling his attention upon her bud, alternating between precise kitten licks and forceful sucks.

Finally, she cried out, holding him tight against her as she shuddered in ecstasy. White hot waves of pleasure rippled throughout her body as her inner walls spasmed with the force of her peak. Only when the final tremor had coursed its way through her body, did she release Aemond’s hair and allow him to draw back.

She gazed down at him, her mind now felt as foggy as his must. He was a vision of beauty, staring up at her, lips and chin shiny with her slick, his pupil dilated with arousal, as his cock stood rigid between his thighs.

“Are you proud of me?” he asked, repeating his question from earlier. “Yes,” she breathed, “my good boy. I am so proud of you.”

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More Aemond fics

[reidmarieprentiss]

I have a request that I know you’ll write 100% better than me! Spencer leaves his girlfriend at the altar without giving a single reason. And disappears for months. Then he comes back and it is revealed he did it because Reader's life was at risk. When he goes to apologize, Reader doesn't let him speak. Spencer crawls on his knees for forgiveness and tries to figure out how to improve the situation. The ending is up to you: angst, happy ending or not. You choose! I know you’ll do a great fic!

Sadly Ever After

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: hurt, angst

Warnings/Includes: no happy ending, being left at the altar, just general sadness after a breakup, small crime talk

Word count: 5.6k

a/n: hiii i hope this is sufficient lolol i am in a very angsty mood

main masterlist

You had never felt so beautiful in your entire life. The dress—the dress—was everything you had dreamed it would be. Layers of soft tulle cascaded down your frame, the delicate lacework etched across the bodice molding perfectly to you, almost as if it had been made for you alone. Each step you took sent the fabric swaying around you like whispers of movement, ethereal and romantic.

Penelope had outdone herself with your hair. Loose waves tumbled, glowing in the golden light of the early evening, held in place by a sparkling hairpiece that caught the glow of the string lights. Every curl seemed to be perfectly placed, not too styled but effortlessly enchanting, as if you had stepped out of a fairytale. JJ and Emily had tag-teamed your makeup, ensuring that every stroke and brush was precise and delicate. The soft blush on your cheeks, the shimmer of your eyeshadow, the perfect tint of color on your lips—it was understated perfection.

And Rossi, ever the consummate host, had given you and Spencer the most breathtaking backdrop for your wedding. His sprawling backyard had transformed into something magical. An altar of wooden beams, wrapped with soft draped fabric and overflowing with flowers—roses, peonies, and wild blooms—stood like a gateway to forever. Twinkling fairy lights criss crossed above, their soft glow turning the clearing into a dreamscape. The grass, still cool from the afternoon, added an earthy softness to the air, grounding the magic in something real.

Then there he was—Spencer.

Your heart stuttered at the sight of him standing at the altar, hands nervously clasped in front of him, the slightest smile pulling at the corners of his lips when his eyes found you. His suit was sharp and clean, a dark shade that contrasted beautifully with the delicate tones of your dress. The bowtie, a small nod to his usual style, somehow made him look even more endearing, his charm on full display. His curls fell just perfectly, framing his face and softening the seriousness of his features.

But it was his eyes that caught you—the depth of them, brimming with unspoken emotion, raw and honest. The sight of him struck you in the chest, stealing the air from your lungs. The tears you had tried to fight back began to prick the corners of your eyes.

Each step down the aisle felt slower, deliberate, as though time itself had stretched just for the two of you. You took in every detail—the warm breeze rustling the leaves above, the distant chirp of crickets, the way the light filtered through the trees, creating golden halos around your guests. As you approached Spencer, standing tall beneath the altar where Aaron Hotchner waited to officiate, your heart swelled with so much love you thought it might burst.

Aaron’s voice, steady and clear, had been a comforting hum in the background—his dry wit laced through the ceremony brought a lightheartedness that had the guests chuckling softly at all the right moments. He was a master at balancing sincerity and charm, even as the formal words of the ceremony unfurled.

The vows had been the pinnacle of it all. Spencer’s, with their perfect blend of sentimentality and poetic elegance, had left you breathless. Every word was carved with precision, so achingly him that it made your heart feel both full and fragile in the best way. Your vows, equally personal and unflinchingly honest, had drawn a few tears from the crowd. For those few minutes, it felt like it was just the two of you—completely alone in your little world, pledging yourselves to each other.

But then Aaron’s voice broke that perfect little bubble.

“Spencer, do you take Y/N to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

It was a question Spencer had to be expecting. One he should have answered without hesitation. The words hung in the air like a held breath. Waiting.

You smiled softly, fingers intertwined with his, but that silence—the silence that followed—was deafening. The longer Spencer stood there, unmoving and unspeaking, the weight of the moment became unbearable. You felt the shift in the energy around you, a sudden drop in the warmth that had enveloped the ceremony just moments ago.

The guests began shifting uncomfortably in their seats. A murmur rustled through the crowd—quiet and confused. It was subtle at first, the furrow of brows and exchanged glances, but the longer Spencer remained silent, the more palpable the tension became.

“Spencer?” you whispered faintly, trying to ground him with the sound of your voice. Your hands squeezed his gently, searching for reassurance in the way his thumb brushed against your skin. But that was the thing—his thumb wasn’t moving at all. His hands were still, stiff even, as he stared at you.

And his eyes—oh, those fucking eyes.

They weren’t full of the love you had seen all evening, that awe-struck admiration that had made your knees weak when you first stepped down the aisle. No, they were hollow now, distant, as though he was somewhere far away.

The silence stretched so long you felt it wrap around your chest like a vice, squeezing the air from your lungs.

“Spencer,” Aaron prompted gently, his calm, officiating voice now laced with quiet concern.

Finally, finally, Spencer moved. The slightest tilt of his lips into a soft, almost apologetic smile. The kind of smile that said everything and nothing at the same time.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. The words were so soft they barely reached your ears, like a secret meant just for you.

Your brows knitted together as confusion bloomed across your face. Sorry? Sorry for what?

But before you could say anything, before you could even process the sound of those three words, Spencer’s grip on your hands loosened. He let go—he let go—and turned.

One moment he was standing in front of you, your almost-husband, and the next he was running. The sound of his shoes hitting the wooden platform of the altar was jarring. Sharp.

“Spencer!” you called after him, panic rising in your voice, but it was too late.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. The murmurs grew louder now, confusion turning to shock as everyone watched Spencer disappear through the open back doors of Rossi’s house.

You stood frozen, rooted to the spot where he had left you, your hands still hovering in front of you as though you could still feel the shape of his in your palms.

The string lights above twinkled innocently, the flowers framing the altar swayed in the evening breeze, and the guests remained seated, staring, waiting—hoping this was some sort of terrible joke.

But it wasn’t.

Aaron, steady as ever, took a cautious step forward, lowering his voice as he gently spoke. “Y/N… do you want to sit down?”

Sit down. Right. You felt like the earth beneath you had cracked wide open, leaving you teetering on the edge. How could he run? How could Spencer Reid—your Spencer—leave you like that?

Your lips trembled as you looked back toward the house, the place where he had vanished. You felt the eyes of everyone on you, their collective disbelief pressing down on your shoulders like an invisible weight.

You swallowed thickly, the tears you had been holding back earlier now threatening to spill for an entirely different reason.

“I don’t…” you started, but your voice faltered.

Because you didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know what had just happened or why.

All you knew was that Spencer Reid—the love of your life, your almost-husband—had left you standing alone under the twinkling lights of Rossi’s backyard, with nothing but a hollow whisper of I’m sorry lingering in his wake.

—

Months had passed, yet time felt like it moved at a crawl. The day Spencer ran from you—from your wedding—remained an echo that refused to quiet. You thought that eventually the sting would dull, that the confusion would lift, but it clung to you like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

You had packed up your life together in silence, alone in the home you once shared with him. The apartment was eerily still without the sound of his voice murmuring about a book or his soft humming while he made tea. It had felt haunted, as though every room whispered why? at you, taunting you with memories of what you thought your life would be. You didn't even see him again during those long days you spent packing—only once did Penelope call to let you know he had gone home to see his mother.

“Just so you know,” Penelope had said softly over the phone. She sounded hesitant, like she wasn’t sure if she was making things better or worse. “Spencer’s not in D.C. anymore. He went back to Vegas. I think he wanted to… I don’t know, give you space.”

You’d thanked her out of politeness, even though the words stung. Give you space. Was that what this was? Him running, abandoning you at the altar—was that his way of giving you space? You didn’t ask for space. You had asked for him. Well, actually, he had asked for you.

So you moved back into the apartment you had sublet without any real trouble. It was strange to see your things there again, familiar but foreign, as though they belonged to a different version of you. You kept most of your life in boxes for a while. Unpacking felt like admitting that this—this emptiness—was permanent, and you weren’t ready to do that yet.

The team tried to reach out in those first weeks.

JJ had sent you messages that were simple but heartfelt: “Thinking of you. I’m here if you need anything.”

Emily had tried to call you once. She left a voicemail, her voice kind and gentle: “Hey, it’s me. I know you might not want to talk right now, and that’s okay, but I just wanted you to know we’re all thinking of you. You’re not alone.”

Penelope was the most persistent. She sent texts, little gifts, even a handwritten letter because she knew how personal that would feel. But every text, every call, every kind gesture just reminded you of him. Spencer had been the thread that connected you to the team, and now every single one of them felt like a painful reminder of what you’d lost. Of the way he left.

So you shut them out, one by one.

You didn’t hate them. You couldn’t. JJ, Emily, Penelope, Derek, Hotch and Rossi—they were good people, your people once. But being around them, talking to them, made Spencer’s absence feel louder. It was as though his ghost lingered between every conversation. And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t separate them from him.

Penelope’s messages stopped first. You imagined her sitting in her colorful office, fidgeting with a pen as she debated whether to text you again. She was the kindest soul you knew, and you hated the idea that you were shutting her out, but you couldn’t face her—or any of them.

Then came the loneliness. It wasn’t the kind that was born from an empty room or quiet nights alone. It was deeper, sharper. The kind of loneliness you only felt when you lost someone dear to you.

You sat on your couch one night—your couch now, not Spencer’s, not yours and his, just yours—and stared at the stack of boxes you still hadn’t unpacked. The light from the kitchen spilled into the living room, casting long shadows across the floor. It was silent except for the hum of the fridge and the faint tick of the clock on the wall.

You wondered if Spencer was in his childhood home now, back in Vegas, sitting with his mother. Did he talk about you? Did he think about you?

Or was he like you—alone in a room that used to feel like home, wondering how everything had unraveled so quickly?

It didn’t matter, you told yourself. You weren’t going to chase answers you might never get. If he wanted to explain himself, he would have. But he didn’t. Instead, he ran. He left you there, at the altar, in front of everyone you loved, and didn’t even have the decency to say goodbye.

You pulled your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on them as you stared at the faint glow of your phone screen on the coffee table. Another message from JJ, one you wouldn’t open. You knew she would stop eventually. They all would.

You had been close with all of them, almost like family. But Spencer’s absence had burned through those bonds like fire through dry wood. And now, months later, all that was left was ash.

And the strangest part of it all? You missed them. You missed JJ’s motherly warmth, Emily’s strength, Penelope’s relentless kindness. You missed Derek teasing you, Rossi’s wise words, Hotch’s steady, grounding presence.

But missing them also meant missing him.

And missing him? That was something you couldn’t bear to feel any more than you already did.

—

The bullpen was quieter than usual that morning. The team was settled at their desks, heads ducked over files and reports, but there was no mistaking the shift in energy. Spencer was back. After months of leave, months of silence, months of wondering—he had walked through the glass doors of the BAU like nothing had happened.

Except something had happened. Something none of them could make sense of.

Spencer didn’t look any different on the outside. His suit was pressed and neat, his messenger bag slung over his shoulder in that familiar way. But there was a tightness in his jaw, a heaviness in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. He had always carried the world on his back, but this time, it looked like the weight might crush him.

The air hung thick as he settled into his desk, quietly unpacking his bag. No one spoke at first, though they all exchanged glances, unsure of how to broach it—of how to demand answers.

It was Derek who cracked first. Of course it was Derek. He had been simmering with frustration for months now, trying to make sense of Spencer’s sudden disappearance and his refusal to talk about it.

“You want to tell us all what the fuck is going on?” Derek’s voice broke through the stillness, sharp and pointed.

Spencer froze, one hand halfway to his desk drawer. He didn’t turn right away, but everyone else did. All eyes turned to Derek, who sat leaned back in his chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His tone was accusatory, sure, but his expression—underneath the tension—was concern.

Spencer swallowed, closing the drawer with a soft click before finally turning to face the team. JJ looked at him with something between worry and hope, her brow slightly furrowed. Emily’s gaze was harder to read, but her eyes were pinned to him, waiting. Penelope, standing in the doorway with a coffee in hand, looked like she wanted to speak but thought better of it. Even Rossi, ever the patient one, had his head tilted slightly as he studied Spencer.

Spencer took a breath, his hands curling around the edge of his desk.

“I…” His voice cracked slightly, unused to addressing so much weight at once. He steadied himself and tried again. “I owe you all an explanation.”

“Damn right you do,” Derek shot back, though his tone was a little softer this time.

Spencer nodded, pressing his lips into a thin line as he gathered his thoughts. He looked down for a moment, fingers drumming idly against the wood of his desk before he spoke again.

“I left because I needed to,” he said simply. His voice was low, not quite weak, but careful—like every word was fragile, like he was afraid they might break apart. “I needed to… figure things out.”

The room fell into a heavy silence as the team sat gathered around the conference table, all of them watching Spencer intently. The blinds were drawn, the overhead lights humming faintly above them, but it did little to dispel the weight pressing down on everyone.

“Figure what out?” JJ had asked softly, her tone teetering somewhere between exasperation and hope.

Spencer had sighed then, a breath so deep it looked like it pained him. “Yeah, um… can we go to the conference room?”

No one argued. 

Once they were all seated in the conference room, Spencer remained standing, gripping the back of one of the chairs like it was the only thing holding him upright. His knuckles turned white as he stared down at the polished table, gathering the words he had spent months trying to keep buried.

“Someone was threatening me,” Spencer said finally, his voice low, steady, but carrying the weight of something dark and unspoken. “Threatening her.”

The pronoun lingered like a slap, and no one needed clarification to know who he meant. You.

JJ sucked in a sharp breath, her hand instinctively reaching for her chest as though she could feel the impact of those words. Derek leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his expression hardening as he processed what Spencer was saying.

“What do you mean, someone was threatening you?” Rossi asked, his voice calm but firm, coaxing Spencer to keep going.

“They found Y/N because of me,” Spencer continued, his voice quieter now, almost ashamed. “Because of my job. I… I put her in danger. They used her as leverage, made it clear that if I told anyone—if I told any of you—that they would kill her.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Emily glanced toward Derek, her expression darkening as she began piecing things together.

“How long did this go on?” Derek finally asked, his tone a low growl.

Spencer didn’t meet his eyes. “Months. I started getting letters, then texts. Pictures of her—ones that no one else could’ve had. They knew where she was at all times. When she went to work, when she was home, when she was with me.”

Penelope gasped softly, her hand covering her mouth as tears threatened to well in her eyes. “Spencer…” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Spencer shook his head, jaw tightening. “I couldn’t let anything happen to her. I couldn’t. So when the threats escalated—when they said they’d kill her if I stayed here and didn’t cooperate—I left.”

“And you didn’t tell us?” JJ asked, the hurt in her voice unmistakable.

“I couldn’t,” Spencer said, his voice nearly cracking. “If I told any of you, they said they’d go through with it. So I had to work the case alone. I did things I… I don’t want to talk about, but I found them. I stopped them. I made sure they could never hurt her again.”

The room fell silent again as the weight of his confession sank in. No one spoke, no one moved. Spencer’s breathing had grown uneven, like the memory alone was clawing its way back to him.

It was Rossi who finally broke the silence, his voice calm and measured but tinged with quiet curiosity. “Why did you wait until the wedding to run?”

Spencer’s shoulders slumped. He looked down at the table, his gaze unfocused, like he couldn’t bear to look at any of them. “I… I thought I could marry her. I thought if I could just get through that day, I could disappear. Take her somewhere safe. Run away with her before they could do anything. I wanted to give her something good, something beautiful, before I ruined everything.”

His voice faltered, and he shook his head, his grip tightening on the chair. “But when I saw her standing there… looking so happy, so perfect… it was like I was transported into my worst nightmare. I saw her—bloody and dead—because of me. Because of what I do, because of who I am. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stand the thought of her being hurt because of me. So I ran. I thought… I thought it was better to break her heart than to get her killed.”

The room was deathly quiet now. No one knew what to say. Derek rubbed a hand over his face, trying to process it all, while JJ blinked away tears that had started to gather in her eyes. Penelope was openly crying now, her quiet sobs muffled behind her hands.

“You should’ve told us,” Emily finally said, her voice soft but firm. “We could’ve helped you, Spencer.”

Spencer looked up then, his face hollow, haunted. “And what if you couldn’t? What if I told you, and it still wasn’t enough? What if she died because of me?” His voice broke on the last word, and he quickly looked away, his shoulders trembling slightly.

No one had an answer for that.

Rossi sighed, leaning back in his chair, the understanding settling on his features. “So you’re back now because it’s over?”

Spencer nodded. “It’s over. I made sure of it.”

“And Y/N?” Derek asked quietly, though the question lingered like a punch to the gut.

Spencer’s face fell, his voice a whisper. “She doesn’t know. She just thinks I… left her.”

JJ’s brows furrowed in disbelief, her voice sharp now. “And you haven’t told her? Spencer, she deserves to know—”

“I know!” Spencer’s voice rose suddenly, a flash of frustration breaking through the cracks. He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to calm down. “I know,” he repeated, softer this time, the anguish bleeding through. “But how do I explain it to her? How do I look her in the eye and tell her I let her believe I abandoned her because I thought I was saving her life?”

The room fell silent once more, the only sound the faint hum of the air conditioning.

No one had an answer for that either.

—

Spencer stood outside your apartment building, his heart hammering so hard he could hear it in his ears, like a drum echoing through a cavernous void. His hands trembled at his sides as he stared up at the familiar brick, the windows glowing faintly with light from the rooms inside. You were home. He knew it, and yet his feet felt like they were glued to the pavement.

His breathing came fast, shallow, uneven—panic building like a wave rising up from his chest and crashing against his throat. He bent over slightly, hands braced on his knees, trying to steady himself, but it wasn’t enough. The air felt thin, insufficient, as if he was sucking in nothing but emptiness.

Not here, not now, he thought desperately, squeezing his eyes shut. You have to do this.

He pushed off his knees and leaned back against the cool brick wall, his spine pressing into it like it could somehow ground him. His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms as he tried to focus on something—anything—other than the guilt gnawing at him.

Breathe in for four. Hold for four. Out for four.

He silently counted, forcing air through his lungs, slowing the frantic rhythm of his breaths. He repeated the process over and over until the tightness in his chest began to ease, just enough for him to move again.

His legs still felt weak as he pushed away from the wall and crossed the threshold into the building, each step heavier than the last. The stairwell yawned before him like an unforgiving climb, the kind that felt insurmountable despite its simplicity. He clutched the cold metal railing as he ascended, pausing halfway up the flight to press his forehead against the wall and whisper to himself under his breath.

“You can do this. Just knock. Just say it.”

The words sounded pathetic to his ears, hollow in the stillness of the stairwell, but they were all he had. After all these months, after everything he’d done—or failed to do—it came down to this. He had to face you. He had to tell you the truth, no matter what it cost him.

When he reached your floor, Spencer stopped outside your door, staring at the familiar brass numbers that suddenly looked foreign. His heart began to race again, beating faster and faster, drowning out every rational thought. He hadn’t been here since… since before everything. Since you had been his, since he had woken up to the sound of your laughter, since he had memorized the smell of your shampoo and the feel of your hand in his.

The memories hit him all at once, clawing their way out of the recesses of his mind like ghosts—mocking him with what he had lost. What he had taken from himself.

Spencer’s hand shook as he raised it, hovering inches away from the door. He felt paralyzed again, the nausea rising in his stomach like a sick promise. He could turn back. He could leave now, before you opened the door, before you saw him standing there. Maybe you hadn’t moved on yet, maybe you still hated him, maybe you didn’t even want the answers he had brought.

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose.

No. She deserves this. She deserves the truth.

His knuckles brushed against the door—softly at first, a timid, ghostly sound. Then he knocked, the noise louder than he intended, the echo of it reverberating down the hall.

Spencer froze, his breath catching in his throat as the moments stretched endlessly. The only sound he could hear was the faint buzz of the overhead lights and the blood rushing in his ears.

And then, from the other side of the door, he heard it.

Footsteps.

The shuffle of movement, the creak of a floorboard.

Spencer felt his pulse spike again, his palms growing clammy as the footsteps approached. His body tensed, and for one horrible second, he thought he might turn and run.

But then the door opened.

And there you were.

You froze in the doorway, one hand still on the knob as your eyes met his. Spencer’s heart lodged itself in his throat as he took in the sight of you—your expression shifting from surprise to something unreadable, your lips parting slightly as though words had caught there, unable to escape.

You looked the same and yet different, somehow. Your hair was a little longer, your face softer, but your eyes—those eyes that had once looked at him with so much love—now held something else entirely.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched on, so loud it was deafening.

Spencer’s throat felt dry as he finally managed to whisper, “Hi.”

It was so small, so simple, but it was all he could get out before his voice cracked.

You blinked, the mask of composure you had thrown on beginning to fracture. Your voice came out quiet, wary, almost disbelieving. “Spencer?”

He swallowed hard, trying to find the words he had been practicing for weeks, for months. They were all jumbled now, falling apart in his mind.

“I… I needed to see you,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “I need to explain.”

Your hand tightened on the doorknob, your knuckles going white as you looked at him—really looked at him—and the pain he’d left behind resurfaced in your eyes like a wave crashing over jagged rocks.

The second the words left his mouth—“I need to explain”—something inside you snapped. The anger, the hurt, the betrayal that had been simmering beneath the surface for months came roaring to life like a fire you could no longer control. Before you even realized what you were doing, your grip on the doorknob tightened, and with a force you hadn’t known you were capable of, you slammed the door.

The sound was deafening, the crack of wood against its frame echoing through the hallway. It felt final, like a gavel coming down to deliver a sentence. And for a moment, all you could hear was the rapid pounding of your own heartbeat in your ears.

On the other side of the door, you heard nothing.

No knock. No footsteps. Not a single sound.

For a long moment, you stood there, your chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. Your hand was still on the doorknob, fingers trembling as though the residual shock of what you’d done was finally catching up to you.

Spencer Reid.

The man who had left you, abandoned you in the cruelest way possible, standing you up at the altar without so much as a word. The man who had disappeared from your life, leaving you to pick up the pieces of a heart he had shattered. And now, now, after all these months, he had the audacity to show up at your door and say he needed to explain?

Explain what?

How he left you humiliated and broken? How he had walked away from the life you were supposed to build together, without giving you the decency of closure?

Your jaw clenched, your hands balling into fists at your sides as you turned away from the door. A bitter laugh escaped your lips—short, hollow, and humorless. You felt like screaming, like throwing something, like letting out all the pain you’d been holding in since that day.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you walked away, forcing yourself deeper into the apartment. You wanted to put as much distance between yourself and that door as possible. Your mind was racing, every thought colliding into the next, until all that was left was a whirlwind of anger and grief that threatened to consume you whole.

And yet…

You stopped in the center of your living room, your eyes drifting to the door as the silence stretched on. You wondered if he was still out there, standing on the other side, stunned into silence.

You hated that part of you cared enough to wonder.

What did he think was going to happen? That he would knock, say a few words, and everything would be okay? That you would just forgive him? He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve you.

But the thought of him still standing there, heartbroken, made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

Slowly, you sank onto the couch, dropping your head into your hands as the weight of it all settled over you like a storm cloud. You took a shaky breath, then another, trying to ignore the tears that were threatening to spill.

On the other side of the door, Spencer remained frozen.

The door was still vibrating faintly from the force with which you’d slammed it, and he stood there, staring at it like it might suddenly open again if he just waited long enough. His breathing was shallow, his face pale as his mind tried to process what had just happened.

He had expected anger. He had expected hurt. But the door slamming—so final, so absolute—hit him harder than he thought possible.

His hand hovered in the air, just inches from the wood, as though he might knock again. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Instead, he exhaled shakily, leaning forward until his forehead rested lightly against the door. His eyes squeezed shut as a wave of nausea washed over him.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, though he knew you couldn’t hear him.

After a few long moments, he forced himself to straighten. He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, turned slowly, and walked away—each step heavier than the last.

And inside, you sat alone, the sound of that door slam replaying in your head over and over again, louder than any explanation he could have given.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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[milkloafy]

YOUR DEAR FRIEND, DAN HENG — DAN HENG

⋆｡˚ ❀ summary: friends don’t buy each other matching necklaces, right? especially not ones with blatantly romantic undertones… ⋆｡˚ ❀ contents: fluff, gn!reader, matchmaker!street vendor in the luofu LMAO ⋆｡˚ ❀ wc: 1.1k+ ⋆｡˚ ❀ a/n: written for @starlitsawamura's garden of eden collab! :> i chose camellia as the flower!! just a lil fluffy drabble with best boy dan heng

If you had to choose only one thing you adored about the Xianzhou Luofu, it would be the multitude of booths and vendors that lined the bustling streets. The Luofu had its many sanctuaries of peace, but the areas of chatter and liveliness was what really caught you attention. 

This time, much to your pleasure, Dan Heng had offered to accompany you on your latest visit. 

“Ooh! Isn’t this so pretty?” you exclaimed, eyeing a shiny gold necklace with a dainty pendant of a camellia flower in the middle. In the center of the flower was a sparkly little diamond. It was no wonder the glimmer immediately caught your eye. 

Dan Heng walked up behind you and peered at the necklace over your shoulder. He nodded once. “It looks nice.”

You giggled at his short response. “What a compliment coming from Dan Heng himself.”

“I try,” he remarked wryly. “It’s a camellia flower, correct?”

“That’s right!” the vendor who was lingering nearby butted in. She was an older lady with a bright smile. “The beautiful camellia. A flower the conveys with it the feeling of love and affection, burning passion. I’d say it puts even the grandiose rose to shame.”

Gently, you clasped the pendant between your thumb and forefinger, brushing the golden petals. 

“I like it,” you said with certainty, debating on whether or not you should buy it right now.

Dan Heng looked between the pendant and your neck. “It suits you.”

You hid your smile. Somehow, such simple words were enough to warm your heart. It was only natural when such words came from Dan Heng. Your dear friend.

“But that’s not all!” the vendor cried once more. “Let your Auntie here show you.” She shuffled around to the other side of the cart before returning with another necklace dangling between her fingers. “There’s a matching pair!” 

Your eyes widened in excitement at the sight of the matching necklace. The pendant was the same, but instead of a diamond in the middle it was a small pearl. The chain was slightly thicker and heavier. You thought it would look good on Dan Heng, especially over his high-necked black shirt. 

“I love it!” you chirped, immediately reaching for your coin pouch. “They’re both so cute.”

You paused before giving into your impulses. It wasn’t like you’d have much use for two of the same necklaces.

As if sensing your hesitation, the vendor held the two necklaces together, revealing them to you as if they were a precious treasure. 

“Do you know the language of the flowers, dear?” she whispered conspiratorially. “‘My heart is aflame for you’. ‘I burn for you.’ That is what these necklaces say. And that is why you and your boyfriend should definitely buy these! Your love will be destined to last forever.” 

“My boyfriend?” you said, looking around wildly before your gaze landed on Dan Heng. Once you realized the vendor’s implications, your cheeks heated up. “Oh! Dan Heng? He’s… He’s not—”

“We’ll take it.” 

“Wonderful!” 

“What?” You blinked. 

It all happened so fast. Dan Heng, pulling out his money and paying before you could; the vendor, counting the credits and handing the camellia necklaces over to him. Your eyes could hardly keep up.

“This Auntie thanks you for your patronage,” said the vendor with a proud smile as Dan Heng bowed his head in gratitude and walked away with you in two. “Come again soon!” 

When he reached a spot underneath the shade of a tree, he offered the necklace with the diamond to you. 

“Here,” said Dan Heng. “It looked like you really wanted it. I hope you do not mind I bought it for you.” 

You shook your head, touched that he would do something like that for you. There were many things you loved in life, and of those many things, one of them was receiving gifts. “I don’t mind at all. I’m happy you got it for me. Thank you, Dan Heng!” 

Taking the necklace into your hands, you attempted to clasp the chain together behind your neck. After a few tries, you sighed in frustration. 

A few more moments passed before you heard someone clear their throat. “Do you need assistance?” 

He maneuvered behind you as you nodded. “Yes, please.”

Slowly, Dan Heng brushed the loose strands of hair on your neck aside and took the ends of the chain between his fingers. His fingertips felt cool against your skin, and your back straightened at the delicate touch. 

Their was restraint in his movement. It felt as if he was trying his hardest to not make direct contact with you, in fear it would be unwelcome. But that only made the accidental touches even more electrifying. You held back a shiver as his knuckle brushed against your bare neck. 

Dan Heng was soon able to clasp your necklace together and stepped away once he did. “There.”

“Thank you.” You touched the pendant with a smile, secure in its spot at the base of your neck. “Would you like some help as well?” 

He considered it for a moment before nodding. “Sure.” 

Swiftly, you took his necklace from his palm and had him turn around. Placing it around his neck, you fastened the chain together. You decided it was much easier when you could actually see the clasp.  

“There,” you announced, moving back to admire the pretty gold necklace against Dan Heng’s black shirt. “It looks so good on you!” 

He chuckled, his cheeks turning pink. “You as well.” 

“Thank you,” you said, fighting off the bashfulness you felt at his compliment. Clearing your throat, you managed to ask, “So, what do you think of the hidden meaning the vendor mentioned?”

Dan Heng considered it for a moment before replying. “It seems the camellia is a very passionate flower. In that sense, it suits you. In terms of the love and romance aspect…” he trailed off, face growing even more red. “Who knows what the future holds.”

You blinked, your ears burning with heat. That might have been as close to an admission as you would get from Dan Heng. 

“Are you implying that the future may hold something like that for us?” you said slowly and curiously, hoping you weren’t interpreting his words the wrong way. 

He smiled almost hesitantly. “I’m uncertain myself what the future has planned, but I wouldn’t mind taking a chance on us.”

For a moment, you were stunned into a shocked silence before happiness overcame you. You laughed at how Dan Heng could be both forward and indirect at the same time.

“Well, we already have the matching necklaces for it,” you said teasingly, touching the camellia pendant once more. “I’d love to take a chance with you.”

[rukunas]

angsty?? deku sucks here (sorry don’t kill me)

“So?” His hands clasp together, steepled in anticipation. “What did that extra get you? Flowers? Chocolates?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on.” Dynamight smirks. “I need to know so I can get my girl something better.”

You scoff as you place the bouquet of fresh red roses in a vase on his desk, courtesy of his new model girlfriend. The note, marked with a perfect lipstick stain, taunts you. “Is it a competition?”

“When it’s with Deku?” Dynamight flashes his canines. “Yes.”

“You’ll win either way. I wasn’t lying. He didn’t get me anything.” You do your best to keep the vitriol out of your voice, but there’s still a sharpness hidden in your tone.

Bakugo catches it, smile disappearing and his brows pinching together in an uncharacteristic concerned frown. “Oh… That case from the Commission is probably kicking his ass right now.”

“Yeah.” You shrug stiffly. “Enjoy the flowers.”

You feel like a bitch. Dynamight is right— you’ve seen how much Izuku has been working, spending late nights at his office, traveling abroad, meeting with some big officials in the government. You even told him to not worry for Valentine’s Day.

So, why were you mad? You had no right. And yet, you thought…

Buzz.

Your phone: Sorry baby, will make it back late 2nite :(( Don’t wait up on me

Well. It didn’t matter what you thought.

The day seems everlasting, annoyingly so. You would know— having to watch each of your coworkers get their own little presents and cards throughout the day. It would be just as bad if you went home and swiped through your phone all day, watching couple after couple post about their date plans. Fuck it, you’ll just stay back in the office and work ahead, it’s not like you have anything else to do.

“The fuck are you still doing here?” A gruff voice echoes from the hall.

“Why are you here?” You shot back, eyeing the hero who leans against your door frame. You recall when you first started working for Bakugo as his assistant, nervous to even look at him in the eye. Now, you openly glare at him. “Your date is at 8. It was hard as hell to get that reservation, you better not waste it.”

“She’s busy, said it in the note. Where’s your date?”

“He’s busy.”

He hums lowly before looking away, staring at the clutter on your desk. Precious hero figurines that you’ve been collecting for years are propped up in poses, along with a picture of you and Izuku. It was from so long ago, you barely remember the memory.

“Would you—” He starts.

“Can I—”

Silence takes over as the two of you interrupt one another.

“Sorry. You go.” You gesture at him to continue.

“Come with me. For dinner.”

“Me?”

Maybe it’s an illusion, but you swear the tips of his ear go pink. “You said it yourself. I can’t miss that reservation. And you said you don’t have plans…”

“Okay.”

“Seriously?” He sounds surprised. It makes your lips curl upward, followed by a breathless laugh.

“Why would I say no to free dinner?”

“I never said I was paying.”

“Oh, shut up, Katsuki.” It was not an illusion, you conclude, watching as his cheeks turn the same color pink as his ears. It takes you a moment to realize you said his given name.

“Alright. I’ll start the car.” He turns to walk out. “Check your desk before you go.”

“Huh?” Too late— he’s disappeared around the corridor.

Suspiciously, you scan your desk. Maybe he left some form that needed your signature? A PR proposal? But nothing seems to be out of order…

Wait. You pause, breath catching as you find the one thing that definitely was not there before. The Limited Edition All-Might Golden Figurine—the figure that was one of the ten ever made, and one that you’ve always dreamt of getting your hands on— stands boldly at your desk. You don’t know how you missed it, not knowing when it was placed there. You feel warmth bloom at your chest, knowing the one person who’d given it to you.

With hands still shaking in excitement and awe, you send out a text: I love you and I love the gift! Thanks baby!!

You find yourself grinning from ear to ear as you pack your things into your bag and put on your jacket. As you do so, your phone buzzes. A happy sigh flutters from your lips as you rummage through your purse to grab it. You knew he’d get you something! He wouldn’t have forgotten Valentine’s Day! And he’s gotten you the best gift you have ever gotten—

?? What gift?

You roll your eyes at his faux cluelessness, moving to take a picture of the figurine. But, as you do, you catch the note stuck to the bottom of it.

The handwriting isn’t Izuku’s. Though, you recognize it immediately.

Happy Valentine’s Day. I hope I won.

[idkdudethisisntpermanent]

Between the Pews

lorraine day x female reader

summary: You recently move to a conservative Texas town, and find yourself drawn to the town’s resident good girl, Lorraine. A struggle between duty and desire, as a forbidden attraction ignites during Sunday church services.

word count: 1.2k

————

The church was bathed in soft, golden light as the afternoon sun filtered through the stained glass windows.  It cast colourful patterns across the worn pews and the bowed heads of the congregation.  You fought to stifle your laughter as you noticed the rainbow pattern projected by the sunlight, dancing across the back of the town mayor.

Your mother gave you a subtle nudge, her way of telling you to keep quiet.  Moving from Silicon Valley to a small conservative town in Texas was the very definition of a downgrade.  Your father's work had forced the relocation, and at first you didn't mind it.  But blending in with the locals and adopting their ways was definitely not part of the deal. Then again, when your dad's job— your family's livelihood, depends on pleasing the townsfolk, that's what you have to expect.

Churches weren't all so bad.  You remember some in the Valley that were all inclusive and didn't care that you were gay, but something about the parking lot full of Fords and the old to young attendee ratio told you that this church was not one of them.  You wondered why your parents would subject you to the torture of a homophobic church, but that was until you saw her.

And torture has never looked so good.

You sat in the back, as you always did, you weren't entirely sure if it was a choice on your end or if it was the church goers not approving your family yet.  Either way you didn't mind. 

Your arms casually draped over the wooden bench. Lorraine was in her usual spot near the front, her hands clasped neatly in her lap. She wore a modest white blouse and a pale blue skirt that ended just below her knees.  Around her neck, a delicate silver cross hung, resting just above the modest neckline of her blouse.

Your eyes were drawn to her, as they had been every Sunday since you first walked into this church almost a month ago. She was the picture of piety, the good Christian girl everyone wanted her to be.  Yet there was something in the way her gaze would flicker back to you, brief and hesitant, like she was afraid of being caught, that told you that she wasn't what this town wanted her to be.

You wondered how important it was to her that she sat in the pews at the front.

The preacher went on and on, his words never reaching you as your focus remained on Lorraine. Her eyes met yours again, and this time, she held it. There was a moment of something—a connection, an understanding that passed between you, electric and undeniable. She looked away as quickly as it happened, her cheeks flushing a soft pink.

You leaned back, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips.  She was trying so hard to maintain her composure, to be the perfect daughter of the church.  But you knew better. You knew there was more to her than the prim and proper exterior she showed the world.

The service ended, and the congregation slowly rose to their feet. Your family remained seated as your father gave smiles to onlookers who wouldn't even spare him a glance.

Lorraine stood up, straightening her skirt with a her careful hands. You watched her, noting the slight shake in her fingers as she gathered her things and made her way towards the door. There was a tension in the air between you two, something unsaid, something waiting to be acknowledged.  But you let it go, for now.

————

Two Weeks Later

The days had passed slowly, each one blending with the next as you replayed that moment over and over in your mind. You hadn't seen Lorraine since the previous Sunday.  You avoided the places you knew she might be, not out of fear, but because you wanted to give her space.  Whatever had happened between you two was intense, too intense for someone who lived in this town their entire life to process quickly.

But now, two weeks later, you were back in the same church, sitting in a different pew, few rows ahead. Not sure if it was due to an increase in your family's social acceptance in the town or your fondness towards a certain girl.

Your eyes inevitably are drawn to the front where Lorraine sat few rows back from her usual pew. Her posture perfect as always, but you noticed the slight stiffness in her shoulders, the way her hands gripped the edge of the pew just a little too tightly. The cross necklace on her neck missing, and you could feel the weight of it in your jacket pocket, heavier with each passing second.

It had been an impulsive move, taking it. You hadn't planned on it, but when she had stood so close to you, her breath warm against your cheek, her voice trembling as she whispered words she wasn't supposed to feel, you couldn't resist.  You'd lifted it from her neck as you kissed her, like all the religious guilt she'd feel for what she's doing with you will vanish with the lack of necklace on her. A kiss that was meant to be quick but had turned into something more—a tangle of lips and emotions that neither of you fully understood.

The memory burned in your mind as you sat there, the necklace hidden away in your pocket, a secret you held close. You could still feel the softness of her lips, the way she had hesitated, then surrendered to you completely. It had been a moment of weakness, or perhaps a moment of truth.  You weren't sure which.

You stood up slowly, the church now nearly empty, and made your way towards the door. Lorraine was still there, her body present by her mind far.  When she noticed you, her breath caught, and she quickly looked away, her hand subconsciously moving to the spot where the necklace used to rest.

Or so you assumed it was subconscious. You considered approaching her, returning the necklace, maybe she wanted it back.

But then you thought better of it. Some things were better left unsaid. As you walked past her, you allowed your fingers to brush lightly against hers, a brief deliberate touch that made her stiffen.

You kept walking, out into the cool afternoon air, the necklace still in your pocket. You didn't look back, but you could feel her eyes on you, watching, wondering. Maybe she would ask for it back. Maybe she wouldn't. Either way, the connection between you, created in that brief moment of stolen intimacy, was something neither of you could deny.

Your parents were talking to you, but you weren't paying attention. Your thoughts were consumed by that necklace, by what it represented, by what it meant that she hadn't asked for it back. Was she waiting for you to make the first move?  Or was she hoping to forget that moment altogether?

But maybe, just maybe, some questions didn't need answers.  Maybe some moments were meant to linger, unresolved, leaving a mark that neither time nor distance could erase.

Some things were better left unsaid, but that didn't make them any less real.  And as you walked away, the cool metal of the cross pressing against your palm, you couldn't help but wonder if Lorraine was thinking about that night too—if she was missing her necklace, or if she was missing something more.

[st4rlvr]

At the alter || CSN

The wind carried the crisp scent of autumn leaves, twirling golden and red hues across the aisle. As I stood in the back, hidden from view for just a moment longer, my heart raced against the quiet hum of the music. My hands fidgeted around the bouquet—clumsy, nervous, but still excited—because this was it. I was walking toward the love of my life.

San was already standing at the altar when the soft swell of the song shifted, signaling me to step forward. I wasn’t quite ready to look yet—I was afraid I might fall apart if I saw him too soon.

My dad squeezed my hand reassuringly, and I took my first step onto the path lined with candles and scattered leaves.

And that’s when I saw him.

San’s face was turned toward me, his dark hair curling softly against his forehead, hands clasped in front of him. At first, I thought his shoulders rose just a little too much—like he’d taken in a shaky breath. Then, his lips parted slightly, and before I knew it, tears welled up in his eyes.

The moment caught in my chest. San, my San, who always found ways to be strong for me, was breaking in the sweetest way possible. I couldn’t stop the small, watery smile tugging at my lips as I watched him try to hold himself together.

And then—oh, God—he waved.

It was small, a little awkward, like he didn’t know what to do with himself, but he couldn’t help it. He waved at my dad, and it was such a nervous, endearing gesture that I nearly giggled right there in the middle of the aisle. My dad chuckled softly under his breath, giving San a nod as if to say, it’s okay, son. You’ve got her now.

San looked between the two of us, and it seemed that single interaction tipped him over the edge. A tear slid down his cheek, and he quickly wiped at it with the back of his hand. He was trying so hard. I loved him even more for it.

As I reached the altar and my dad kissed my cheek before handing me off, San let out this quiet, shaky, “Hi,” like he couldn’t believe I was standing in front of him.

“Hi,” I whispered back, and I swear his tears doubled right then.

His hands were trembling as he took mine, but his smile—the one he reserved only for me—shone through all the tears and nervous laughter.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered softly, just for me to hear.

“And you’re a mess,” I teased him, grinning.

He let out a laugh that cracked halfway through, but his thumb rubbed gently over my knuckles as he shook his head. “I can’t help it. I love you so much. It’s just… you’re you.”

For all his tears and little waves, San grounded me at that moment. I realized that it didn’t matter how shaky or nervous or emotional we both felt—this was ours. Our day.

The officiant started speaking, but for me, there was no one else but San. Even as the world buzzed with quiet laughter from our friends or the rustle of leaves in the breeze, it was just us standing there.

Through soft vows spoken with cracks in our voices and teary eyes that didn’t hold back anymore, we promised each other forever.

And forever with San—this emotional, nervous, waving man—felt like the perfect kind of fall.

The golden hues of the sunset melted into warm amber string lights that hung across the reception area, twinkling softly as the evening deepened. Laughter and clinking glasses filled the air, the buzz of love and celebration vibrating around us. San had barely let go of my hand since the ceremony, staying close to me, his thumb tracing gentle circles against my skin whenever he thought I wasn’t paying attention.

After dinner, as guests started to mingle and music began to play softly in the background, I watched San excuse himself from the table and walk across the room. My heart warmed when I realized where he was headed—straight toward my dad.

San stood there for a moment, shuffling nervously as my dad looked up from his conversation with one of my uncles. He spotted San, smiled, and motioned for him to sit. But San just shook his head, shifting his weight awkwardly before scratching the back of his neck. From where I sat, I could see the tips of his ears turning red.

“Sir, can I, um—can I say something?” San started, his voice just loud enough for me to catch over the hum of the reception.

My dad raised his brows, clearly amused but still kind. “Of course, San. What’s on your mind?”

San took a deep breath and let it out, his hands nervously slipping into his pockets before coming back out again like he didn’t know what to do with them. He looked like he was replaying the moment from earlier, still embarrassed.

“I just… I wanted to say sorry,” San blurted out, his voice earnest. “About the, um… the wave. You know—during the ceremony.”

I covered my mouth to stifle a laugh, watching the scene unfold.

My dad’s lips twitched as he tried not to smile. “The wave?”

“Yeah.” San rubbed the back of his neck again, visibly flustered. “I just—I know it probably looked really awkward. I was so nervous, and I saw you walking Y/N down the aisle, and it hit me all at once. That… that she’s your daughter. That I’m getting to marry her. And it’s such a blessing.”

San paused, taking another breath as his words slowed down, the emotion thick in his voice. “I was trying to keep it together, but I couldn’t. I waved because I didn’t know what else to do—like it was the only way I could acknowledge the moment without completely breaking down. And I just… I wanted to thank you for trusting me with her. For letting me be the one to love her.”

The table around them had quieted just enough for the weight of his words to hang in the air. My dad, who had been listening intently, finally smiled—one of those rare, genuine smiles I didn’t see too often—and stood up.

San straightened immediately, standing there like a kid waiting to be scolded, but instead, my dad reached out and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“San,” he said warmly, his voice low but steady, “there’s nothing to apologize for. I saw the way you looked at her today. That’s all a father wants to see—that she’s loved, respected, and cherished. You gave me that peace the second you started crying at the altar.”

San let out a nervous, shaky laugh, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I couldn’t help it, sir. She’s everything to me.”

My dad’s smile softened as he nodded. “Then you don’t have to call me ‘sir’ anymore. Call me Dad.”

San froze for a second, his wide eyes flickering between my dad and the ground as if trying to process the moment. Then his face broke into the biggest, brightest grin, one that I could feel all the way across the room.

“Thank you… Dad,” he said quietly, his voice breaking just a little on the word.

I didn’t realize how emotional I’d become watching the exchange until San turned and caught my gaze, his expression softening when he saw me. He didn’t hesitate—he walked straight back to me, practically beaming.

“Everything okay?” I asked as he reached me, his hands finding mine instinctively.

“Yeah,” he whispered, brushing a kiss against my knuckles. “Your dad’s incredible. I think I almost cried again.”

I laughed softly, reaching up to wipe away the remnants of tears that still clung to his lashes. “You’re the most emotional groom I’ve ever seen.”

San grinned sheepishly, shrugging. “I can’t help it. You’re the love of my life.”

“And now you’re officially my dad’s favorite person,” I teased, wrapping my arms around his neck.

San’s smile turned soft as he pressed his forehead to mine, swaying us slightly as the music shifted to a slow song in the background.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice just for me. “Because I plan on loving you for the rest of my life.”

And as he held me there, under the golden glow of string lights and surrounded by the hum of our loved ones’ laughter, I realized there was no one else I’d rather share forever with than this emotional, awkward, endlessly loving man.

[galedekarios]

god gale + some details

i got a mod that allowed me to have a good look at god gale's cape in-game.

at first glance, i thought that the golden decorative clasps that held the cape together were snowflakes or maybe ice crystals, but they're actually stylised flower. you can click on the image to see a larger version.

it may be my own confirmation bias speaking, but, to me, the largest one in the middle looks like hedge roses:

with the shape of petals and leaves, which in turn makes me think of elminster's letter:

the outermost ones look like a moonflowers to me, but i can't be sure:

of course, the first association i have with this flower - in conjunction to gale - is waterdeep's heraldry. reading up on its meaning, it stands for mystery and romance.

the back of the cloak is beautifully embroidered with a peacock motif:

which is not unique at all since a few of the available camp clothing share the exact same embroidering, like the emerald eminence outfit:

but while it's not unique to god gale, what it did do was remind me of tara's comment in the epilogue:

Tara the Tressym: That's good. We should miss him. He was such a lovely fellow. Proud as a peacock, but... my little love.

nothing really new here all in all, but i did like the detailing even if it may not be intentional.

[luverine]

Vampire Hunter x Bitten! Reader

He did everything right- he protected you, locked you in his home, the safest place. Yet there you stood, clinging to a vile creature as it drained the very life from your veins.

Word count: 3.1k

MDNI // NSFW // blood // death // crybaby men // cannibalism? // religious topics ⁽ʸᵒᵘ’ᵛᵉ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ʷᵃʳⁿᵉᵈ⁾

“NO!” Dallon tightened his grip on the sickle, his knuckles white with fury as he charged forward. His piercing blue eyes locked on the creature that had you pinned, its pale, sharp teeth glinting in the dim light. You were slumped against the monster, your body lifeless in its clutches.

Tears blurred Dallon’s vision as he swung the sickle with a savage cry, embedding it deep in the devil’s neck. With a sickening crunch, he wrenched the blade, severing its head in a single, desperate motion.

No blood spilled- not from the beast, at least. But yours… yours stained the earth.

Four puncture wounds marred your neck, teeth marks that spelled doom.

Dallon dropped to his knees, gathering your body into his trembling arms. “No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “You aren’t leaving me. Not yet.” He pressed a kiss to your clammy forehead, his lips trembling. “I won’t let you go.”

Back home, the room was a chaos of rituals, desperation made manifest. Dallon worked tirelessly, his mind a tempest of hope and dread. Holy water ran in rivulets down your still form, pooling on the floor. Crosses adorned every surface, crucifixes hung from your wrists and neck, garlic encircled the room, its sharp scent mingling with the metallic tang of blood.

“Everything will be as it was,” Dallon muttered, his voice unsteady as he poured the beast’s blood down your throat. It was a final, unholy attempt to tether you to life.

For two days, he prayed without rest, his knees bruised, his voice hoarse. He clasped your cold hand, his silver-ringed fingers trembling as he whispered fervent pleas. “Please, Lord, take the devil’s mark from them and bring them back to me. I beg of You.”

But the heavens remained silent.

On the third night, exhaustion finally claimed him. Dallon lay beside you, his body curled protectively around yours. He clung to you even as your skin turned colder, even as your veins darkened to an unnatural hue. His tears soaked the crook of your neck, a silent vigil of despair.

It was nearly dawn when a bit movement jolted him awake.

A twitch.

His heart leaped into his throat as he shot upright, clutching your hand. “You moved!” he cried, his voice thick with conviction. “My love, stay with me. Stay.” His hands flew to your chest, rubbing life into your still form.

Your chest rose and fell in a shallow, ragged breath. Then, with a guttural sigh, you turned your head toward him, your golden-ringed eyes opening for the first time.

Dallon recoiled. “No…” he whispered, shaking his head as if to banish a nightmare. “No, darling, it’s me. You’re still here. We can fix this.” His trembling hands poured holy water on you, expecting a reaction.

Nothing.

He staggered back, his legs giving out as he crumpled to the floor. “Why is it not working?” he sobbed, clawing at his hair. “What am I doing wrong?”

But your hand found his, your voice- a whisper of what it had once been- calling his name.

“Dallon… it’s me.”

Weeks passed. Though you breathed, your body defied life. You did not eat, yet you lived. The hollow gold of your eyes became a constant reminder of what he had failed to prevent. The church must not know, Dallon concluded. No one must ever find you.

In the quiet of the night, Dallon watched as you sat by the fire, your fingers trailing along the worn pages of a book you had once loved. Your pale skin reflected the flickering flames, your darkened veins a stark contrast to the warmth of the light.

He stood in the doorway, his heart pounding. You were still you. Weren’t you?

Dallon stepped away, retreating to the hidden room where his collection of weapons and relics lay. He traced a trembling hand over the hilt of a blade, his thoughts clouded with anguish.

“I won’t let them take you,” he muttered, his jaw tightening. “I won’t let them burn you.”

The church’s rules were clear- no abomination could be allowed to exist. But Dallon had no faith left in their mercy.

Behind him, a faint rustle drew his attention. He turned to find you standing there, your golden eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.

“Dallon?” you asked softly, your voice tinged with uncertainty. “What are you doing?”

He turned away, unable to meet your gaze, and began fiddling with a silver chain on the table. His hands shook as he spoke, his voice low and raw. “They’ll find out. Sooner or later, someone will come asking questions. I can’t let them take you, not after everything I’ve done to keep you here.”

You frowned, your head tilting slightly as you studied his hunched form. The weight he carried was palpable, but there was something else beneath his words- something darker, more desperate.

“Dallon,” you said softly, reaching out to touch his arm. He flinched at the contact, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you moved closer, your fingers brushing against the fabric of his sleeve. “What have you done?”

He laughed bitterly, a hollow sound that filled the cramped room. “What haven’t I done?” His shoulders sagged as he finally turned to face you, his eyes red-rimmed and brimming with unshed tears. “I’ve betrayed the church. Lied to the people I’ve served my entire life. Killed to protect you. I’ve prayed every night for forgiveness, but heaven’s silent. And now…” His voice cracked, his hands trembling as he reached out to cup your face. “Now, I don’t even know if you’re still you.”

The words struck you like a blow, and you recoiled slightly, your golden-ringed eyes widening. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, his lips parting as if to answer, but no words came. His gaze dropped to your hands- hands that had once been warm and full of life, now pale and cold, veins like dark threads beneath the surface. His fingers brushed against your cheek, lingering on the faint discoloration that crept across your skin.

“You’ve changed,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I can feel it. You don’t breathe like you used to. You don’t dream. You don’t eat. It’s like…” He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “It’s like you’re caught between two worlds. Not dead, but not alive either.”

You stepped back, his words cutting deeper than you expected. “I didn’t ask for this,” you said, your voice shaking. “I didn’t ask to come back. You made this choice for me.”

Dallon’s eyes widened, and he reached for you, but you backed away further, your arms wrapping around yourself. “You couldn’t let me go, could you?” you continued, your tone bitter. “You dragged me back from death, and now you’re afraid of what I’ve become. But I didn’t choose this, Dallon. You did.”

“I had to!” he snapped, his voice rising with desperation. “I couldn’t let you leave me. Not like that. I couldn’t live without you!”

His confession hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. You stared at him, searching his face for something- remorse, understanding, an apology, but all you saw was his overwhelming grief.

“Maybe,” you said quietly, your voice like a fragile whisper, “you should have let me go.”

The words broke something inside him. He staggered back, his hands falling limply to his sides. “Don’t say that,” he pleaded, his voice trembling. “Please, don’t say that. I can fix this. I just need more time.”

“You can’t fix this,” you replied, your golden-ringed eyes narrowing. “You don’t even know what you’ve done. Do you?”

Before he could answer, a sudden noise echoed from outside the house- a faint creak, like a footstep on the porch. Both of you froze, the air in the room growing tense.

Dallon’s hand darted to a blade on the table, gripping it tightly as he moved toward the door. “Stay here,” he hissed, his voice low and urgent.

But something stirred within you, something primal and foreign. The scent of whoever- or whatever- was outside drifted in on the cold night air, sharp and tantalizing. It set your nerves alight, your senses sharpening to a terrifying degree.

“Dallon,” you said, your voice shakier, hungrier. He paused, looking back at you, and his eyes widened at the sight of your expression.

Your pupils had dilated, the golden rings around your irises glowing faintly in the dim light. “Don’t go,” you warned, though your tone held an edge of something darker.

Dallon hesitated, his grip on the blade tightening. “What’s out there?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

You licked your lips, your gaze fixed on the door as your pulse quickened. “I don’t know,” you said, a faint smile curling at the edges of your mouth. “But it smells… delicious.”

His eyes widen, and he freezes, unsure of what to do. He glances back at the door, then at you. “If it’s another hunter, we should answer. They’ll stay away for a while if we answer.”

But you’re not listening. The hunger gnaws at you, a sharp, all-consuming ache that drowns out all reason. Your focus is razor-sharp on the door, where the scent of dinner lingers just beyond. “I’m so hungry…” you whisper, your voice raw and trembling. You hunch over, clutching at your stomach, desperation pouring from every word. “Please don’t let me starve, honey.”

Dallon looks at the door again, a shaky sigh escaping his lips. His hand slips into his pocket, fingers clutching the rosary he keeps there. He presses it to his lips, murmuring a prayer for forgiveness. His voice breaks. “I’ll take care of you, always. Just like we promised at the altar.” A tear slips down his cheek as he turns the knob.

He doesn’t look at you when he opens the door.

Your eyes lock on the old man standing outside- a traveler, a wanderer. You don’t see the worry etched on his face or the pack slung over his shoulder. You see prey.

You lunge.

There’s no hesitation, no thought, just the overwhelming need to feed. Your teeth sink into flesh, the man’s screams piercing the air before fading into a gurgling silence. Warmth floods your senses as his life drains away, his body crumpling beneath your hands. Blood coats your face, your hands, your clothes- so much blood.

Behind you, Dallon collapses to his knees, clutching his rosary like a lifeline. His whispered prayers blur with choked sobs, his tears staining the bloodied floor.

When the hunger finally subsides, clarity returns like a cruel slap. You look down at what remains of the man- torn, lifeless, unrecognizable. Shame and horror ripple through you, but they’re distant, muffled by the satiation humming through your veins. You chew the last bite mechanically, then rise and turn toward your husband.

Dallon is curled up on the floor, his shoulders shaking. He’s at war with himself- his faith, his promises, his love for you.

You kneel beside him, pulling him into your arms. He clings to you desperately, his grip so tight your back pops. His tears soak into your blood-caked skin, and the sound of his sobs breaks your heart all over again.

You rub his back, murmuring softly, “Shh, it’s okay, sweet. None of this is your fault. I’m so sorry.” You press a kiss to his neck, breathing in his familiar scent, rocking him as if you can soothe the storm raging inside him.

Eventually, his hold loosens. His red-rimmed eyes sweep over you- your tangled hair, the blood smeared across every inch of you. His gaze drifts to the doorway where the man had stood, and his frown deepens. The realization hits him like a blow: it wasn’t a hunter. It was just a traveler. An innocent soul.

The night fades into a fragile quiet.

The next morning is eerily still.

Dallon sleeps on the bloodstained floor where you held him. You rise before dawn, moving through the house in silence. Cleaning the mess is your burden to bear; he’s already carried enough. You bury the remains without ceremony, the weight of guilt pressing heavy on your chest.

By the time he stirs, the scent of breakfast wafts through the air. Bacon sizzles on the stove, its comforting aroma filling the kitchen.

He splashes cold water on his face and stares at his reflection in the mirror, willing himself to look presentable. When he finally steps into the kitchen, he’s met with a table set just for him: eggs, bacon, bread, and sliced tomatoes- his favorites.

A small, weary smile tugs at his lips.

You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek before sitting across from him. He looks at you, his smile faltering as he takes in the lingering streaks of blood on your skin, the faint shadows in your eyes.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then, softly, he says, “Thank you.”

And you nod, your heart breaking all over again.

The following week drifts by in silence- two broken hearts, each pulling him apart from the inside.

Dallon feels hollow, consumed by the ache of your absence. He craves your touch, longs for the warmth you once brought to his world. Now, that warmth is gone, replaced with a coldness that somehow still feels so tender.

He’s stopped praying. The prayers went unanswered for so long that he began questioning if there was ever anything to pray to at all.

What remains is the yearning, the weight of unshed tears. Most nights, he sits before the fireplace, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames, his eyes shut tight as if he could- hoping for your love to be unvarying.

“Dallon?” Your voice breaks the quiet. “What are you doing? It’s late.”

His eyes snap open, wide and tearful. When he sees you, his breath catches.

“I miss you,” he murmurs, his voice trembling as the tears finally fall.

Your hand rises instinctively, cupping his face, your thumb gently brushing the streaks of wetness from his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice heavy with regret. “I never wanted things to end up like this.”

You lean in, pressing the softest, most tender kiss to his lips, as though trying to pour all your sorrow and love into that single moment.

He looks at you, lips parted, words failing him. Awe fills his cerulean eyes.

“Let me take care of you this time,” you say softly, your arms wrapping around him. You run your thumbs across his back, soothing him with slow, tender movements.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Dallon breathes again.

Dallon nods, his gaze softening as you slide closer to him on the divan. Your fingers trail lightly across his shoulders, your lips brushing tender kisses along the curve of his neck.

He exhales a quiet hum of satisfaction, tilting his head slightly to give you more access. “I love you,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm, as his hand slips to the nape of your neck. Firmly, he pulls you closer, capturing your lips in a kiss that deepens with every passing second.

His weight shifts as he leans over you, his body pressing against yours. The heat between you grows, his touch igniting a fire in your skin.

“Dallon,” you whisper breathlessly, “I need you- I’ll make you feel goo-”

Your words are swallowed by another kiss, his lips demanding and consuming, silencing you in the most intoxicating way.

His desperation is unmistakable as you feel his arousal pressing firmly against you. With a tug, you lift your shirt, baring your chest to him. His reaction is immediate- his lips find your sensitive nipples, his mouth warm and eager as he sucks and teases, his hands kneading your soft skin. The sensation sends shivers through you, pulling moans from your lips as you melt beneath him.

Dallon pulls back just enough to smirk, his voice teasing. “I’ll make you feel so good.” He tugs his shirt over his head, his movements quick but deliberate, and sheds his pants and underwear in one fluid motion. His hardness stands proudly, already glistening with anticipation, twitching in time with his shallow breaths.

You match his pace, slipping out of your bottoms and meeting his gaze. The way he looks at you- full of adoration and desire- makes your heart flutter. “I love you too,” you whisper, your voice soft but steady as your eyes roam over him, silently asking for permission.

“You never have to ask,” he murmurs, his tone gentle yet commanding. “I’m yours.”

The words send a surge of confidence through you. Moving closer, you wrap your hand around his thick length, stroking him slowly, relishing the weight and warmth in your palm.

“Oh god- I need you,” Dallon groans, his head falling back, his hands gripping your shoulders to steady himself. “Please- more.”

You smirk at his plea, brushing a kiss to his hand as you murmur, “I’m all yours.”

Before you can react, he guides you both upright, pulling you into his lap. His hands settle firmly on your hips, his voice low and filled with longing. “Put it in?” he asks, the vulnerability in his tone making your heart ache in the best way.

With a nod, you oblige, aligning yourself with him. Slowly, you sink down, your body stretching to take him in. The moment he fills you, both of you let out deep, primal moans, the sensation overwhelming.

Dallon’s grip tightens as he begins to move, his hips meeting yours in a rhythm that sends sparks dancing across your skin. Each thrust is deliberate, each movement a testament to how desperately he needs you, how deeply he adores you.

“I’m close- can I fill you?” Dallon whispers, his breath hot against your ear, his pace steady.

“Do it- come inside me, Dallon,” you moan, your voice trembling with need. As he lets go, a warmth spreads through you, his release filling you completely. A wave of relief washes over you both, a reminder of the deep, unbreakable love you share.

He exhales shakily, his forehead resting against yours as he catches his breath. “I made you feel good, didn’t I?” he asks, one eyebrow playfully arched, though his eyes hold a hint of vulnerability as he waits for your answer.

You smile softly, brushing a kiss to his chin. “Like you’ve ever had a bad performance,” you tease, your voice laced with affection. “Of course, you made me feel amazing.”

He chuckles, pulling you closer as you settle against his chest, your ear pressed to the steady, drumming rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Can we stay like this for a while?” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Dallon looks down at you, his lips curving into a tender, tired smile. Softly, his arms tighten around you as the world fades.

“Anything for you.”

A/N: love y’all ‹𝟹 I got an idea in my head of a vampire/zombie thing where if you kill the vampire that turned you, you’d turn into a zombie kinda creature. Also put my religious trauma to its best use- a sad little horny vampire hunter (lol)

Likes, reblogs, comments appreciated ‹𝟹

Don’t steal my works!

Divider: kodaswrld

[novaursa]

Legacy (contingency)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: dragonfire

- Next part: dragonstone

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal

Rich banners of crimson and gold draped from the high vaulted ceilings of the Great Hall, the sigil of House Lannister roaring above the gathering. The long tables overflowed with food: roasted boar glazed in honey, fragrant spiced wine, golden loaves of bread, and sweetcakes decorated with little sugar lions. Music filled the air—a lively tune played by minstrels whose strings and pipes accompanied the hum of conversation and laughter.

At the center of it all sat King Tommen Baratheon, his crown polished to perfection, seated proudly at the head of the royal table. Beside him, Queen Margaery looked radiant in a gown of green silk embroidered with golden roses, her bright smile lifting the mood of the hall. To Tommen's left sat Cersei Lannister, though her face was a mask of cold disinterest as she stared pointedly at her cup of wine, refusing to so much as glance toward her twin brother Jaime, who stood behind the king as his sworn protector.

Farther down the hall, the laughter of ladies mingled with the squeals of a happy child.

You stood near the far end of the hall, where a small play area had been set up for your son. Damon, now a year old, was surrounded by noblewomen who cooed and fussed over him as if he were the very center of the world. He sat on a plush blanket, his chubby hands reaching for the wooden lion and dragon toys set before him. His silver-gold hair shone under the light of the great chandeliers, and his bright eyes sparkled with curiosity as he looked from one lady to the next.

“My, but he’s a handsome little boy,” cooed Lady Tanda Stokeworth, bending down slightly to smile at Damon. “And clever, too, I’m sure.”

“Very clever,” agreed Lady Falyse, her hands clasped before her. “He has his mother’s eyes, but I daresay the strength of his father will be in him as well.”

“And the fire of a dragon,” added Lady Taena of Pentos, her dark curls spilling elegantly over her shoulders as she smiled warmly. “The realm will speak of him for generations to come.”

“Enough fluttering about,” came the sharp voice of Lady Olenna Tyrell, who sat nearby, cane resting against her chair. “You’ll have him thinking he’s a lord before he can even string a full sentence together.”

The ladies fell silent momentarily, though some tittered softly behind their hands as they moved away. You sat down beside Damon, brushing a hand gently over his soft hair as he giggled, delighting in the attention he’d received. “It seems you’re already a favorite,” you murmured with amusement.

Olenna sniffed, though there was a faint, approving smile on her lips. “That’s the way of things with babes and dragons. Give them a pretty face and a silver mane, and everyone flocks to them like flies to honey.” Her gaze softened faintly as she looked at Damon. “But he is a fine boy, I’ll grant you that.”

Damon responded by dropping his wooden lion and reaching for his dragon toy, gnawing happily on its tail. You smiled faintly, brushing your fingers over his chubby cheeks. “He’s my heart,” you said softly.

“Let’s hope he has a good head on his shoulders, then,” Olenna remarked, though her tone was lighter. “He’ll need it, surrounded by spiders and vipers alike.”

You looked across the hall, your gaze landing on Tywin Lannister, who stood tall near the royal table. The Lord of Casterly Rock looked as proud and imperious as ever, his crimson and gold doublet immaculate, his presence commanding the respect—or fear—of every lord who circled him. They spoke in hushed tones, each vying for his attention, trying to curry favor with the lion who now had a dragon under his roof. Tywin listened with polite indifference, his face betraying none of the irritation he no doubt felt at the incessant politicking.

You caught his eye across the hall, and for a fleeting moment, his gaze softened ever so slightly as he looked at you and Damon. He inclined his head a fraction, a silent acknowledgment of the family he had built—a momentary respite from the endless droning of opportunistic lords.

Nearby, Varys, the ever-watchful Spider, lingered in the shadows. His gaze flicked toward the small gathering where you sat with Damon, his expression unreadable. It was no secret that Varys knew more than most, and the way his eyes lingered on your son made your stomach tighten with unease. You had no doubt the whispers of Damon’s first nameday would soon travel across the Narrow Sea and beyond.

At the royal table, Tommen’s young laughter rang out as he watched one of the performers juggle apples. Margaery leaned close to him, smiling warmly as she spoke softly, no doubt ensuring the boy king enjoyed the celebrations.

Cersei, however, sat rigid, her fingers curled tightly around the stem of her goblet. Her face was pale with irritation, her lips pursed as she stared at nothing. When she finally spoke, it was low and bitter, though loud enough for those nearest to hear.

“A feast for a babe,” she sneered. “One would think we were crowning him king.”

Margaery smiled sweetly, not missing a beat. “Perhaps we celebrate because it is a moment of joy, Your Grace. Something rare and precious in these times.”

Cersei turned a cold glare on Margaery, though she said nothing more, her expression souring further when her gaze landed briefly on Jaime, who stood silently behind Tommen, his golden hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. He offered her no support, no comfort, his eyes fixed instead on the room at large, detached and quiet.

“Your Grace,” said Varys softly, suddenly at Cersei’s side, his voice as silken as ever. “The realm rejoices at unity, no matter how small the occasion.”

Cersei looked at him sharply. “And what unity do you see, Spider? The kind bought with dragons?”

Varys offered his smooth, enigmatic smile and said nothing, his gaze drifting briefly to where Damon sat.

Across the hall, Tywin watched the exchange with the faintest flicker of disdain in his eyes, though his mask of control never slipped. He turned his attention back to the lords surrounding him, his tone clipped and final. “Enough of this,” he said coldly, brushing them aside as he moved away.

He approached you and Damon, his steps measured and deliberate, cutting through the murmurs of those who watched him move. When he stopped before you, Damon immediately looked up, his bright eyes wide as he recognized his father. He cooed happily, waving his dragon toy as though offering it to Tywin.

The corners of Tywin’s mouth twitched ever so slightly as he regarded his son. “He grows quickly,” he said, his tone softening just enough that only you noticed.

You smiled faintly, lifting Damon into your arms. “Too quickly,” you replied, brushing a kiss against the boy’s head. “Soon he’ll be running through these halls, terrorizing everyone.”

“I expect nothing less,” Tywin replied, his gaze lingering on the boy before shifting back to you. “The feast is a success.”

“For you, perhaps,” you teased lightly. “The lords seem eager to bow before the man who holds a dragon’s leash.”

Tywin’s expression turned cold, though his words were measured. “A dragon bows to no one. But appearances must be maintained.”

You glanced toward Varys, who still watched quietly from the shadows. “And the whispers?”

Tywin’s jaw tightened slightly. “Let them whisper. Whispers are meaningless unless we let them become something more.”

You nodded, though a flicker of unease remained in your chest. For now, though, you pushed it aside as Damon squirmed in your arms, reaching out toward Tywin with chubby hands.

Tywin hesitated for the barest moment before extending a hand, allowing Damon’s small fingers to curl around his thumb. It was a brief gesture, but one that spoke volumes. The Great Lion of Lannister stood proud, the boy in your arms his legacy, his triumph.

And as the hall rang with laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets, you allowed yourself to smile. For tonight, at least, the future felt secure.

The air in the Red Keep’s halls had grown cooler as the feast carried on in the Great Hall, but here, in the shadowed passageways away from the celebration, the silence was heavy. The distant echoes of music and laughter barely carried this far, and the flickering torchlight did little to soften the cold stones of the castle walls.

Cersei Lannister walked with purpose, her gown trailing behind, though her movements were sharp, her face still drawn with irritation. Her goblet of wine, long emptied, dangled carelessly from her fingers as she turned a corner and found Jaime Lannister where she expected him: standing near an open window, his white Kingsguard cloak a stark contrast to the gloom. The faint breeze tousled his hair as he leaned one elbow against the stone ledge, staring out toward the darkening sky.

“You always find the quiet places,” Cersei remarked, her voice breaking the stillness as she approached.

Jaime turned his head slightly, though he didn’t look at her. “Perhaps I prefer them,” he said simply, his tone disinterested.

She frowned faintly, stopping a few paces away from him. “You missed half the feast.”

“And yet,” Jaime replied dryly, finally turning to face her, “you followed me here. Did the wine run out already?”

Cersei’s face tightened, though she ignored the jibe. “No. But you’ve sulked long enough tonight. Or is it that you can no longer stomach these celebrations?”

Jaime exhaled through his nose, his green eyes sharp as they met hers. “Is it sulking to prefer the quiet over the spectacle?”

Cersei’s lip curled faintly. “And yet you remain, standing guard over Tommen like a dutiful knight. Always at a distance, always watching.”

Jaime’s expression didn’t change. “I do what I must.”

“And is that why you say nothing?” Cersei shot back, her tone edged with frustration. She stepped closer, dropping the empty goblet onto the stone ledge with a hollow clink. “You stand there, silent and cold, while Dorne sends me nothing but empty words. ‘Myrcella is well.’ Those are their only replies to my ravens. No assurances. No promises.”

Jaime’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his voice remained calm. “And you think I have the answers? You were the one who sent her there.”

“She was safer in Dorne than in King’s Landing!” Cersei snapped, though her words lacked the conviction they once carried. “Father would not listen, you wouldn’t listen—no one would listen to me.”

Jaime shifted, his gold hand resting lightly against the stone ledge. “And now you want me to do what? March to Dorne and demand Myrcella’s return? Or simply assuage your guilt?”

Cersei flinched, though she masked it quickly with anger. “I don’t need your lectures, Jaime. I need your support.”

Jaime looked at her long and hard, the silence stretching between them like a chasm. “Support for what, Cersei? Myrcella is well, or so we’re told. If something had happened to her, you would know.”

“And what if they lie?” Cersei pressed, her voice quieter now but no less fervent. “What if Doran Martell sends nothing because he’s toying with us? He despises our house—do you think he has forgotten Oberyn?”

Jaime’s jaw tightened slightly. “What I think is that worrying aloud will not change anything.”

Cersei glared at him, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “You sound just like Father.”

Jaime’s lips pressed into a thin line at that, but he didn’t rise to her bait. Instead, he turned his gaze back out toward the night sky, his voice low. “If you have nothing to say beyond paranoia and blame, then perhaps you should return to the feast.”

Cersei stepped forward, the shadows deepening around her. “Do you remember, Jaime?” she asked, her voice quieter now. “Do you remember our own namedays?”

Jaime’s brow furrowed slightly, though he didn’t turn to look at her. “Why bring that up?”

“Because Father never threw us feasts,” Cersei replied bitterly, her tone carrying the weight of old wounds. “Not after Mother died. There were no celebrations, no music. Just silence, year after year, as though we didn’t matter.”

Jaime finally looked at her then, his expression softening slightly. “You know why.”

“Because he couldn’t bear the memory,” Cersei answered, her voice sharp. “But what of us? We were children, Jaime—children who wanted to be seen. To be celebrated.”

Jaime studied her carefully now, his face unreadable. “What are you implying, Cersei?”

Cersei took a breath, her voice trembling ever so slightly. “Do you not find it curious that our father throws such a grand feast for his new son? Yet for us, there was nothing. Nothing.”

Jaime shook his head faintly, though his voice was tinged with exasperation. “You’re reaching for something that isn’t there. Damon is a babe; he means the world to his mother, and through her, to Father. That is all.”

Cersei stepped closer, her eyes blazing. “No, Jaime. It’s more than that. Can’t you see? That dragon—her dragon—flew across the Narrow Sea to her. To her. And Father—our father—stands at her side as though she were his queen, as though she has replaced us.”

Jaime stared at her for a long moment, his features hardening. “And what would you have me do about it? Challenge her? Challenge him?”

Cersei’s gaze flickered with something desperate, something unspoken. “You’re the only one who listens, Jaime.”

Jaime’s shoulders sagged slightly as he looked at her, his voice low and tired. “I don’t know what you want from me, Cersei. But whatever it is, I can’t give it to you.”

Cersei’s lips parted, as though she might say more, but the words died on her tongue. For once, her twin brother had no answer for her, no comfort to offer. Jaime turned away again, his gaze drifting back to the distant lights of the city.

“Go back to the feast,” he said softly. “Tommen needs his mother.”

Cersei stood still for a moment longer, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. Then, with a sharp exhale, she snatched up the goblet she’d abandoned and turned on her heel, the silk of her gown trailing behind her as she stalked back into the shadows of the corridor.

Jaime remained where he was, alone beneath the stars, his expression etched with something far darker than silence.

The sounds of the feast began to ebb and swell like the sea, the lively music and laughter punctuating the occasional clinking of goblets and roar of cheer. Yet away from the revelry, in a quieter alcove of the Great Hall, Tywin Lannister stood tall and still, his expression as unyielding as the walls of the Red Keep. Lords and sycophants continued to circle near him like moths to flame, eager to curry favor or win a moment of his time.

But when the soft, measured footsteps of Varys approached, the subtle murmur around Tywin dissipated, as though even the air itself sensed the Spider’s presence.

Tywin’s stren green gaze flicked toward Varys, who approached with a serene smile and hands tucked neatly within the folds of his flowing lavender robes. The Master of Whisperers stopped a respectful distance away and inclined his head. “My lord,” he said smoothly, his voice as silken as ever. “Congratulations are in order, I believe.”

Tywin’s face betrayed nothing, though there was a faint narrowing of his eyes as he studied the eunuch. “And what congratulations do you offer, Lord Varys?”

“For your son’s first nameday, of course.” Varys’s smile didn’t falter as he tilted his head. “Young Damon is a remarkable boy—strong and spirited, like his parents.” His gaze briefly flickered across the hall to where Damon sat on your lap, still surrounded by noblewomen and cooing servants. “The realm watches him closely, my lord. A lion born under the shadow of a dragon. It makes for an extraordinary tale.”

Tywin’s lips curled faintly, though it was more a tightening of his mouth than a smile. “The realm has a penchant for tales,” he said curtly. “I deal in truths.”

“Indeed,” Varys replied smoothly. “And it is truths that bring me to you now, my lord. Truths carried across the Narrow Sea, where the fires of another dragon burn.”

Tywin turned his full attention to the Spider then, his presence looming even more than before. “Speak plainly, Varys. I’ve little patience for riddles tonight.”

Varys inclined his head once more. “Very well. It seems your younger son, Tyrion Lannister, is alive.”

The words landed like a stone dropped into a still pond. Though Tywin’s face remained unreadable, there was a sharpness to his posture, a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. “Alive,” he repeated, his voice low and cold. “And where?”

“In Essos,” Varys said softly, as though revealing the answer to a carefully guarded secret. “To be more specific, he is now serving as an advisor to your wife’s younger sister, Daenerys Targaryen—the Queen of Meereen.”

Tywin was silent for a long moment, his piercing gaze fixed on Varys as though trying to unearth the depths of his machinations. “Should I believe you had nothing to do with his escape, Varys?” Tywin asked at last, his voice a blade honed to perfection. “Or with this news?”

Varys’s smile never wavered, though there was a faint flicker of amusement in his pale, watchful eyes. “I would be lying, my lord, if I claimed to be entirely blameless. I may have… facilitated certain circumstances during his escape from the capital. After all, chaos often creates opportunity.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, though his voice remained measured. “You’ve spent your life weaving webs, Spider. I wonder how much of this one is yours.”

“I assure you, my lord,” Varys replied calmly, “Tyrion’s path has been his own. I merely find it curious how Lannisters are so often drawn to flame. First you, with your Targaryen bride and her dragon… and now your younger son, whispering counsel to her sister.”

Tywin’s expression darkened, the weight of Varys’s words settling heavily between them. “What is your aim in telling me this?”

“My aim?” Varys echoed softly, his voice feigning innocence. “My aim is only to keep you informed, my lord. Knowledge, as you well know, is power.”

Tywin regarded him with a cold intensity, his mind already working through the implications. “A Targaryen queen rising in Essos is no secret. But Tyrion’s involvement complicates matters.”

“As it often does,” Varys replied with a faint smile. “Your son has always had a penchant for surviving where others would not. And now, it seems, he has aligned himself with a queen who bears the blood of Old Valyria and speaks of reclaiming the Iron Throne.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed. “Daenerys Targaryen is a child playing at power. Her sister has proven far more pragmatic.”

“Perhaps,” Varys said mildly, “but the young queen across the sea has grown formidable. Her dragons are a little bigger than Viserion, and with Tyrion at her side, her ambitions gain focus.”

Tywin’s gaze turned icy. “Then it will be dealt with—like every other threat.”

“Of course,” Varys murmured. “I have no doubt of that, my lord. Though I would suggest keeping your eye firmly on both sisters, lest fire burn unchecked.”

Tywin’s stare lingered on the Spider for a long, silent moment, unblinking and unyielding. Finally, he inclined his head ever so slightly, dismissing Varys with a flick of his fingers. “Go.”

Varys offered a smooth bow, his robes whispering against the stone floor as he turned to leave. Before disappearing fully into the shadows, he paused just long enough to add, “It is curious, isn’t it, my lord? How the lion and the dragon always seem destined to meet.”

Tywin said nothing, though his expression was carved from stone.

When Varys was gone, the Lord of Casterly Rock turned his gaze back toward the feast, where the sounds of music and laughter carried on without pause. Across the room, you cradled Damon in your arms, a faint smile on your lips as you whispered to him, oblivious to the storm now brewing in Tywin’s mind.

The Spider’s words lingered like smoke in the air, and Tywin’s jaw tightened as his thoughts raced. Tyrion. Daenerys. Dragons.

Whatever flame had drawn his family to it would soon demand reckoning—and Tywin Lannister would ensure it was met on his terms.

The hum of the feast carried on in the Great Hall, but here, on the far side of the chamber, where the air was quieter and the firelight softer, you sat with Damon cradled in your arms. The plush cushions around you provided comfort as Lady Olenna Tyrell remained seated close by, her sharp gaze scanning the room like a hawk watching prey. Damon cooed softly, his fingers grasping at the edge of your sleeve, his bright eyes filled with wonder as he looked around at the grand surroundings.

You smiled faintly, brushing your fingers through the boy’s curls. “You’ve quite the audience tonight, haven’t you?” you murmured to him softly. Damon giggled, clutching at your hand, his laughter like a balm amidst the constant thrum of the hall.

Olenna sniffed lightly, tapping her cane against the floor in idle rhythm. “They’re all waiting for the child to do something miraculous, no doubt,” she quipped dryly. “As if every noble babe doesn’t giggle and drool all the same.”

You chuckled, adjusting Damon in your lap. “Let them look. He’s a child born into a world where lions and dragons share a room. That alone makes him a marvel to them.”

“Indeed,” Olenna said with a smirk. “They’ll either worship him or fear him in time, depending on which beast roars loudest.”

Before you could reply, a shadow swept across the edge of your vision. You looked up, and there she was—Cersei Lannister, gliding toward you with a goblet of wine in hand, the golden silk of her gown flowing like liquid sunlight. Her face was composed, but there was a hardness in her gaze that was impossible to ignore.

“Lady Olenna,” Cersei greeted coolly, though her eyes barely brushed the Tyrell matriarch before settling on you. “And you, mother,” she added, the word “mother” dipped in a faint edge of mockery.

Olenna raised a brow, her expression sharp as ever. “How rare to see you so far from the royal table, Cersei. I was beginning to think you’d been fused to that chair.”

Cersei’s lip curled slightly, though she ignored the barb, her attention fixed on you and Damon. “You seem content tonight,” she said, her tone light but with an undercurrent of something darker. “The proud mother, adored by all.”

“I have every reason to be content,” you replied smoothly, glancing down at Damon, who stared curiously at Cersei with his wide, violet eyes. “He is my joy.”

Cersei’s gaze lingered on Damon for a moment longer than necessary, her expression unreadable. “He looks like father,” she said at last, though the words carried no warmth. 

You raised a brow at her. “You sound almost complimentary, Cersei.”

She tilted her head, swirling the wine in her goblet. “Perhaps I am. After all, your son is a Lannister—is he not? My father has made that abundantly clear to all of Westeros.” Her voice was calm, but there was venom beneath it.

Olenna’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “It’s rather amusing, isn’t it? How quickly the world forgets old grudges when dragons return.” She tapped her cane sharply against the stone. “But here you are, Cersei, nursing one still.”

Cersei turned her gaze on Olenna, her expression hardening. “And why should I forget?” she countered, her voice dropping slightly. “A Targaryen sits where my mother once did. Her dragon looms where my son should reign without shadow. Should I smile and clap like the rest of you?”

You shifted Damon slightly in your arms, your tone calm but firm. “I sit beside your father because he chose me, Cersei. And this dragon you so despise would burn those who would harm your family—just as I would.”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed, her voice sharp as she leaned closer. “Do not pretend that your fire is for us. You serve your own blood first and the rest of us second.”

Olenna let out an exaggerated sigh, clearly enjoying herself. “Oh, do calm down, girl. You sound like a fishwife.”

Cersei shot Olenna a glare before looking back at you. “Tell me,” she continued, her voice deceptively soft, “do you think this peace will last? That my father will dote on you forever, while the realm holds its breath over your son and your dragon?”

You met her gaze evenly, your fingers brushing gently over Damon’s hair as his small hands clutched at the edge of your gown. “I think that the realm will endure so long as we do not tear it apart out of jealousy and spite.”

Cersei’s jaw tightened, her knuckles whitening around her goblet. For a moment, you saw the flicker of something deeper—loneliness, fear—but it vanished quickly, replaced by her steely veneer.

“Jealousy?” she echoed softly. “No, Y/N, you mistake me. I do not envy you. I pity you.”

Olenna laughed sharply, breaking the tension like a slap to the face. “Pity? How very charitable of you, Cersei. What next? Will you hand her alms like some poor beggar in Flea Bottom?”

Cersei turned on Olenna, her voice icy. “You should hold your tongue, old woman. You’ve meddled enough in my family’s affairs.”

Olenna merely smirked. “And yet here you are, meddling in hers.”

You shifted Damon in your arms, his small yawn breaking through the animosity. “Enough,” you said softly but firmly, your gaze steady as you looked at Cersei. “If you wish to speak of jealousy and pity, do so elsewhere. My son will not grow up hearing such poison.”

Cersei’s gaze flicked to Damon once more, lingering as though searching for something in his innocent face. Finally, she straightened, her expression smoothing back into icy composure. “Enjoy your moment, Y/N,” she said coolly, turning to leave. “Moments rarely last.”

As she walked away, Olenna muttered under her breath, “What a tiresome woman.”

You exhaled slowly, pressing a kiss to Damon’s head as his small hands curled against your chest. “She is a lioness protecting what she thinks is hers,” you murmured, more to yourself than anyone else.

Olenna leaned back in her chair, her sharp eyes watching Cersei’s retreating figure. “She’s a lioness who doesn’t yet realize the cage has been locked behind her.” She paused, her voice turning thoughtful. “Watch her closely, my dear. Women like Cersei are most dangerous when they feel cornered.”

You nodded faintly, your gaze drifting back to Damon, who had finally begun to drift to sleep in your arms. His quiet breathing, soft and rhythmic, grounded you against the undercurrent of tension still lingering in the air.

For now, the feast continued, the music played, and the Great Hall hummed with life. But somewhere deep in your heart, you knew Olenna’s words were true.

Cersei Lannister was dangerous—and her resentment burned just as brightly as any dragon’s fire.

The moon hung high over the Red Keep, its silver light spilling across the stone walls and bathing the castle in a cool, ethereal glow. The festivities of the day had finally come to an end, and silence reigned where music and laughter had once filled the air. The halls were empty save for the faint footfalls of a passing guard or the soft flicker of a torch burning low.

In your chambers, the fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting long shadows against the walls. The room smelled of lilies and warm candle wax, a comforting presence as you stood before the tall mirror, unpinning your silver hair. Damon had long since been carried off to the nursery, fast asleep after the excitement of the day. Now, the only sounds were the pop of the fire and your quiet movements.

The door opened with the faintest creak, and you glanced up as Tywin entered, his presence as commanding as ever, even in the stillness of the night. He had already shed his formal doublet, his crimson tunic and dark trousers immaculate, though his shoulders bore the faint weight of the long day. His gaze swept the room before settling on you.

“You’re still awake,” he observed, his tone calm but expectant.

You turned slightly, offering him a faint smile. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”

“I decided to retire here,” he said, moving toward the desk where a decanter of wine and goblets had been left for you. “The rest of the castle is far too restless for my liking.”

You nodded, returning to unpin the final strands of your hair. “The feast was a success, by all accounts. Though it seems you had little patience for the lords that circled you.”

Tywin poured himself a small measure of wine, his movements deliberate as he spoke. “They are drawn to strength, like carrion to a fresh kill. They think proximity to me will bring them power. Fools.” He turned, taking a slow sip of his wine, his sharp green eyes lingering on you.

You finished with your hair and moved toward the large bed, sitting on its edge to unlace the ribbon at your sleeve. “And yet you endure them.”

“I endure many things,” Tywin replied coolly, though something in his voice hinted at the weight of what lay beneath. He watched you for a moment longer before setting his goblet aside and approaching.

You could feel his eyes on you as he neared, the faint creak of the floorboards under his measured steps. His silence, though not unusual, felt heavier tonight. When he finally spoke, his tone carried the careful weight of deliberation.

“What do you know of your sister?”

The question caught you off guard. You paused mid-motion, turning your head to look up at him. “Daenerys?”

Tywin’s face betrayed nothing, though his gaze was unrelenting. “Yes.”

You tilted your head slightly, frowning faintly. “I know probably what you do. She was born on Dragonstone, after I had already been taken north to be a ward of the Starks. I never met her.” You paused, as though searching for fragments of memories long buried. “We exchanged letters, a handful over last year—most of which were formal, polite. There is little else I could say.”

Tywin regarded you carefully, as though dissecting your words for any trace of deceit. “And you never wondered about her? About the sister who shared your blood and hatched dragons?”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, your voice calm but firm. “What is this about, Tywin?”

He exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms as he stood before you, his towering form framed by the firelight. “Tyrion is alive.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavier than the silence that followed. You blinked, the revelation settling into you like a cold weight. “Alive?” you repeated softly. “How?”

“Varys,” Tywin said curtly, the name like poison on his tongue. “The Spider facilitated his escape after the trial.” His voice dropped lower, sharper. “And now my son sits in Essos as an advisor to your sister, Daenerys Targaryen.”

You stared at him, absorbing the full weight of his words. “Daenerys,” you said slowly, realization dawning. “She means to push her claim.”

“She will,” Tywin replied with certainty, his gaze unyielding. “A Targaryen queen with dragons at her back cannot be ignored. She will come for the Iron Throne.”

You shook your head faintly, your voice steady. “And you think she’s a threat to me? To Damon?”

“Not yet,” Tywin answered, though his expression remained hard. “But she will be. Your sister carries the blood of Old Valyria, as you do. She has armies, she has dragons, and now she has Tyrion whispering in her ear.”

You frowned, searching his face. “Why tell me this now? Why tonight?”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his voice deliberate. “Because one of the dragons she hatched flew to you. Not to her. That matters.”

You rose from the edge of the bed, the tension in your body unmistakable as you stepped closer to him. “Viserion came to me, yes, but not because I called for her. She came for reasons beyond my understanding—perhaps instinct, perhaps fate.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You speak as though that makes no difference. But it does. To the realm, to your sister, to me.”

“And what of my claim, then?” you asked sharply, your voice rising slightly. “Is that what this is about? You would pit me against her because the blood of kings runs in my veins?”

Tywin did not flinch, his voice calm but firm. “You are a Targaryen. Your son is a Lannister and a Targaryen. That blood gives you a claim that will be undeniable to many—more so than hers. You could unite the realm, secure its future.”

“And at what cost?” you countered, meeting his gaze without wavering. “My sister is not my enemy, Tywin. She has never been.”

“Not yet,” Tywin said coldly. “But blood has turned to fire before. It will again.”

For a long moment, the two of you stood there, locked in a silence that crackled with unspoken anxiety. The fire in the hearth danced wildly, casting fleeting shadows across the room.

Finally, you exhaled softly, your voice quieter but no less firm. “Do you fear her?”

Tywin’s face remained impassive, though his tone betrayed a flicker of something deeper—calculated pragmatism, perhaps even unease. “I fear nothing. I prepare for everything.”

You shook your head faintly, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “Dragons do not bow, Tywin. Not even to lions.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping closer, his gaze holding yours, “Viserion flew to you. And now you bow to me.”

The words stung more than you cared to admit, though you refused to show it. Instead, you lifted your chin, holding your ground. “I chose this path—for my son, for myself.”

Tywin studied you for a long moment, the flicker of the fire reflecting in his green eyes. When he spoke again, his tone was softer, though still edged with purpose. “Do not forget the world we live in, Y/N. It will not tolerate two Targaryens. When the time comes, you must decide where you stand.”

You stared at him, your heart heavy as his words sank in. Tywin Lannister, ever the pragmatist, had laid the truth bare. And though you knew the fires of your blood would burn brightly in the days to come, you could not yet see which flame would consume the other.

The winds howled around Dragonstone, whipping against the cliffs with the fury of an ancient beast. The grey skies above the island hung low and brooding, heavy with the salt of the narrow sea. Below, the waves crashed relentlessly against the jagged rocks, echoing through the labyrinthine halls of the Targaryen stronghold.

Within the belly of the island, deep in the Dragonmont, the air was heavy with heat, thick with the scent of sulfur and ancient fire. The men of House Lannister—armored in crimson cloaks and polished steel—moved with uneasy steps as they followed their lord through the dim passageways. The sound of their boots echoed ominously against the black stone, though not a single man spoke.

At their head, Tywin Lannister strode forward with his usual measured calm, a figure of unwavering authority even in the heart of this dragon’s lair. Beside him, Jaime Lannister walked in silence. Unlike the other soldiers, Jaime’s face remained composed, though there was a flicker of doubt in his gaze as he looked toward his father.

“Is this wise, Father?” Jaime finally broke the silence, his voice low but clear. “Approaching the beast without her rider? Without your wife?”

Tywin did not slow his pace, his green eyes focused ahead on the faint glow that grew brighter with every step. “My wife is attending to our son,” he replied coolly. “She is not needed for what I intend to do.”

“And what is it that you intend?” Jaime pressed, though his tone carried the weight of caution.

Tywin glanced at him briefly, his expression unreadable. “To remind the beast of who I am.”

Jaime’s brows furrowed as they stepped into the vast, torchlit cavern that was the Dragonmont. The air was sweltering here, filled with the heavy pulse of something ancient and alive. The black stone walls shimmered faintly with heat, their edges glowing with the faintest ember-like gleam.

And there, at the center of the chamber, lay Viserion.

The she-dragon’s cream-and-gold scales reflected the torchlight like molten metal, shimmering with every slight movement. Her massive wings lay tucked against her sides, rising and falling gently as she breathed. Viserion’s head was curled over her claws, her eyes closed, though even in sleep, the slow rumble of her breathing filled the cavern like a distant storm.

The Lannister men froze where they stood, their faces pale as they took in the sheer size and power of the dragon before them. One of the soldiers murmured a prayer under his breath, though the words were swallowed by the cavern’s silence.

Jaime hesitated. “Father—”

Tywin raised a hand, silencing him with a single gesture. Without another word, he moved forward alone, his polished boots striking the stone floor with deliberate precision.

Viserion shifted. The great muscles along her flanks rippled as her wings twitched slightly, the air around her growing hotter. A low, warning growl vibrated through the chamber, deep enough to rattle the bones of every man present. The sound was primal, unmistakably a sign of her awareness.

“Father—” Jaime hissed again, his tone sharper now, though Tywin did not stop.

Tywin stepped closer still, his face a mask of calm as he approached the massive creature. Viserion’s growl deepened, and her golden eyes snapped open, locking onto the man who dared intrude upon her rest. Her pupils, slitted and sharp as blades, narrowed dangerously.

The men behind Tywin tensed, gripping their weapons instinctively though they knew they would be of no use against the beast. Jaime cursed under his breath, his hand hovering near his sword despite its futility.

Tywin stopped mere paces from Viserion, unflinching as the she-dragon lifted her massive head, her teeth bared in a display of power. Her wings unfurled slightly, casting vast, jagged shadows across the chamber walls.

“Viserion,” Tywin said, his voice steady, unwavering, as though he were addressing a courtier rather than a dragon. “I know you understand me.”

The growl from Viserion deepened into something more—half warning, half challenge. She loomed over him now, her neck arching as her throat began to glow faintly with the embers of fire. Her breath was like a furnace, a searing gust of heat that washed over Tywin as she let out a roar so loud the walls themselves seemed to tremble.

Still, Tywin did not move.

The Lannister men stumbled back in fear, one dropping his sword with a clatter. Jaime stepped forward instinctively. “Father, enough! She’ll—”

Tywin lifted a hand to silence his son once more. His sharp green gaze never left Viserion’s molten gold eyes. “You know who I am,” he said evenly, his voice cutting through the dread like steel. “And you know that I am not your enemy.”

Viserion bared her teeth again, her throat glowing brighter as smoke curled from the edges of her mouth. The heat was unbearable, the air thick and stifling. Tywin took another step forward, close enough now that he could see the faint flicker of the fire within her.

“You are fire made flesh,” Tywin said softly, his voice carrying across the cavern. “But you are also her dragon. You know that. And through her, you know me.”

Viserion’s gaze flickered, her growl hesitating for the barest of moments. Her massive claws scraped against the stone floor as she shifted slightly, her wings folding back closer to her sides. The light in her throat dimmed just enough to hint at restraint.

Tywin stepped forward one last time, his hand lifting slowly, deliberately. The men behind him murmured in shock and disbelief, but Tywin ignored them. Viserion watched him warily, her head lowering ever so slightly, her growl softening to a deep, vibrating rumble.

The moment stretched unbearably long, the firelight flickering against the metal of Tywin’s rings as his hand brushed against Viserion’s snout.

The she-dragon let out a deep, guttural sound—not quite approval, but not rejection either. Her massive body shifted again, settling against the stone floor with a huff as she allowed the touch, her eyes half-lidded and watchful.

Tywin let his hand linger for a moment longer before withdrawing. He turned on his heel, facing the men who had watched the impossible unfold before them. Jaime stood frozen, his face a mixture of shock and disbelief.

Tywin’s voice rang out, calm and authoritative. “I want armor made for her—Valyrian-inspired, reinforced and worthy of her size.” His gaze swept over the soldiers, cold and unwavering. “She is to be well-fed and kept under watch. This dragon is not some wild beast. She is a weapon, and like all weapons, she will be sharpened and honed.”

The men exchanged stunned glances but nodded quickly, murmuring their assent.

Jaime finally found his voice, stepping forward as Tywin approached. “You mean to arm her?” he asked, incredulous. “Father, why—”

Tywin cut him off with a sharp look. “Because I will not leave the fate of this realm to chance, Jaime.” His gaze flicked back toward Viserion, who now watched them with wary stillness. “Her fire is ours to wield. And we will wield it.”

Without another word, Tywin strode past Jaime and the men, his footsteps echoing through the cavern. Jaime lingered for a moment, glancing back at the she-dragon as she settled herself, the fire in her eyes watching them all with quiet menace.

He exhaled sharply, muttering under his breath as he followed his father out of the Dragonmont.

Behind them, Viserion’s growl rumbled softly, a sound that seemed to promise that no one—not even Tywin Lannister—could ever hope to fully control the fire she carried within.

[youlikefanficdontyousquidward]

All the Kings horses

Summary: When your injured in Eregion Gil-Galad has to confess his feelings.

There may be a smutty sequel to this in time but for now enjoy another shorter fic.

This morning you were reveling in the beauty of Lindon, admiring the golden leaves drifting through the gentle breeze and singing songs of hope and love with your kin. Now you sat on horse back, clad in your silver armor and preparing to march to Eregion.

You rode just behind your dear friend Elrond with the High King beside him. As the current captain of the King's guard had been sent with most of Lindon's forces to march into Mordor it fell to the few left to take up his mantle. The responsibility weighed heavy on your mind. Sure you weren't the only one who would be ensuring his safety but to you it was a personal matter.

You'd met the young High King when you were a simple foot soldier. You had fought under his banner against the forces of Morgoth. There you saw him on the battle field, his broad form clashing against the enemy. His spear glinting in the light as he spun it with a grace that left you speechless. He was every bit the King you'd imagined and when his firm grasp clasped your hand to help you rise, you swore you'd fight for him until the end.

It had been an age since then and you were sure he had not remembered one soldier from such a battle. Still he had always treated you with respect despite your low rank. Asking your opinion on trivial matters, or sharing with you a book or two to enjoy in your free time.

When the horses stopped to rest, you dismounted and took your post. You were unsure why you'd been ordered to stand guard inside the King's tent. The honor rightfully should have gone to higher ranked guard but you were not about to question your temporary captain. Not when the power had gone right to her head and not when it let you gaze at your King.

Elrond entered and you bowed your head to him with a smirk but there was no levity to be found. His face was serious as he placed a hand on your shoulder. He passed on to speak to your King and you were left feeling more apprehensive about the battle to come.

It was a bad omen indeed and when the fighting began you stayed back with King GIl-Galad and a few of the guards. As Elrond had explained they need only fend off the orcs until dawn. By then Prince Durin would've brought his army from Khazad-dum for much needed reinforcements. Too many had already fallen and you felt your hands itch for your sword.

"Enough!" Your King growled. "I will not stand by as my people are slaughtered."

There was no argument, none of the guards dared disobey and from the firm nods of your kin you knew it was settled. You rode in formation, the bow man taking out threats as you made your way into the fray.

From horse back you struck down at closing in orcs, keeping yourself between them and your King. As your group neared the cleared river bed the bow man was struck. You'd barely known him, just another face you passed in your duties but you'd done so for 200 years. Now that face struck the wet ground with a snap you could hear over the cries of battle. There was a shout and the elleth flanking the King went flying off her horse as it fell. You rode on, catching a glimpse of her fighting against a gathering group of orcs.

You stayed by King Gil-Galad through the night, fighting by his side as the field grew quieter. You met Elrond on the field, loosing a throwing knife to strike an assailant coming up behind him. You lost your 2nd and 3rd in close combat, to the eye and toe of orcs.

You lost the last when it became lodged in the skull of an orc that almost clipped the King's armor. You'd had it in hand and leapt onto the beast, knocking it down and stabbing up through the mouth. You heaved in deep breathes, the prolonged fight starting to wear on you and rose from off the corpse.

Gil-Galad stood, haloed by the first light of dawn. His hair loose and glowing stands dancing in the breeze. Morning had come and a horse stood on the hill. Vorohil had returned and worse for wear. Despite the arrows he managed to ride to you, collapsing into Elrond but he brought no comfort. The dwarves were not coming.

Still your King called you to ranks and the battle continued. Each sword slash felt like you were trying to stop the flow of a great river. No matter how many fell the fight never stopped. You were pushed back past the wall into Eregion, baring witness to the city in ruins. You could not abandon hope now however, with each moment you fought on those within the city were granted time to escape.

Pain erupted from your leg, an arrow piercing into the flesh of your thigh. You screamed before blocking the orc approaching, crashing your head past the joint blades and crushing their nose with your helm. It fell loose and clattered against the stone path, rolling to stop by the feet of an approaching horde.

You stepped back, meeting your King against you. In a moment of silent connection you knew he was seeing much the same thing. You'd lost sight of Elrond some streets back and hoped that somehow he'd appear now. Slaying his way to rescue his King.

You fought on but in the narrow passage you lost your sword. You heard Gil-Galad call your name but you couldn't see him in the mass of orc's beating down on you.

Your mind seemed to swim in to the depths, going dark and blank for many minutes at a time before you surfaced for a moment. In blinks it seemed you went from face down on the carved stone of the street to your arms painfully gripped as your limp body dragged after you. Flashes of carnage, orc, elf, blood, viscera, all blurring into a collage of suffering. In the dark of your mind you smelt burning but couldn't draw the strength to open your eyes. The warm sensation trickling from your hairline, down your face was a likely culprit.

"Lord Sauron said we don't need these ones..." A nasally voice spoke near by.

Your hair was pulled painfully, jolting your head back and for a moment you could see again. Gil-Galad, your King and the only elf to ever take such root in your heart, strained against his captors. Something cold touched your throat but in the haze you were back in Lindon, receiving your armor for the first time since the war. Elrond was there too, shouting, congratulations maybe? Everything was perfect and tranquil. The leaves fell gently on the wind and you shut your eyes.

When they opened again all you knew was pain. So loud it thrummed in your head that all else seemed drowned out by it. You groaned against it, shifting to try assess cause. A large hand landed on your shoulder and you flinched.

"Apologies." A strained voice spoke withdrawing. "Just take a moment."

Your hand came up to your face, rubbing against the brightness of the light ahead. It came away with russet flakes sticking to your fingers.

"And perhaps we don't reopen our head wounds while we're at it." Gil-Galad's voice came crisper now.

"Wher..." You began, jolting suddenly and reaching for your missing sword.

Gil-Galads hands took your own, encompassing them with ease and radiating in you such calm that you forgot your pounding heart.

"Safe, my dearest friend." He smiled, brighter than the sun and no less warm.

Your heart stuttered in your chest at his words. You'd think it was some trick of your injured head but his hands were still holding your own and his face a serene mask. His eyes left your own for a moment, focusing on your lap as his thumb brushed gently over your bruised knuckles.

"I thought I may have lost you. That years of deluding myself that it was for our best interest that I say nothing, would have robbed me of this chance." Gil-Galad murmured.

He didn't sound himself and you began to worry. You shifted your hands in his to clasp them. You gave a reassuring squeeze and kept focused on his softening features. His brow lifted and those dark eyes met your own again.

"Please, If this isn't what you wish say the word and you will never hear another syllable about it." Gil-Galad promised but you kept your lips sealed.

"I have loved you too long from afar. I wish for you to be by my side from now until the end of all things. I wish to hear you sing and laugh and tell those awful jokes that you tell when you think I'm not listening. I want all of you and all I have to give is me and my burdens." Gil-Galad professed.

You had no words, no eloquent speech of your own just a hand taken and laid on his shoulder and lips pressed to his own. Gil-Galad responded in kind, his hand coming to cup your cheek as he deepened the kiss.

"They are no burdens." You manage between kisses. "Not when shared with you."

This seems to spur him on, nipping at your lower lip and moving his hand up into your hair. You hiss suddenly, pulling back as the reminder of your pain pulses to life again.

"Sorry my love." Gil-Galad apologises with a chaste kiss to your temple. "There will be time when you're healed."

You pout at this, earning a hearty laugh and another soft kiss against your lips. You supposed you'd waited this long for him, what was another day.

[aphroditelovesu]

Kinktober Day Twenty-Six — Wedding Night

❝ ☀️ — lady l: day twenty-six of kinktober! Yes, I know I'm late with the last ones and I apologize! But here it is now and I hope you like it!

❝ ☀️pairing: soft yandere!apollo x female!reader.

❝warnings: smut, NSFW, vaginal sex, oral sex (female receiving), fingering.

❝☀️word count: 1,340.

❝tag: @compulsiivedreamer

On the wedding night of the wedding of the god Apollo and (Y/N), Olympus shone with a special luminosity. Zeus, the King of the gods, prepared a heavenly room for the couple. The walls were adorned with golden frescoes depicting the heroic deeds of Apollo.

A white silk canopy fluttered over the bed, which was covered in crimson rose petals. The gentle melody of Apollo's lyre echoed in the room as he expertly played it, creating a magical soundtrack for the night.

The ceiling, decorated with twinkling stars, gave the feeling that they were under the sky itself. A crystal chandelier hung in the center, casting dancing reflections of light throughout the room.

You were nervous about your first time with your new husband. Not just because you were inexperienced but because he was a god. So nervous wasn't the right word, perhaps, but rather scared.

And you felt your hands shaking a little as Apollo guided you to the large bed, his gaze softening when he saw how nervous you were.

"I won't hurt you." He said, stroking your face gently as you sat down. You smiled at him and nodded.

"I know."

Apollo kissed your forehead, "Then there's no need to be so nervous. I'll take care of you and make you feel good."

Apollo kissed your lips carefully, a gentle and soft kiss that quickly turned passionate. The god's arms wrapped around your waist and brought you closer to him, his tongue touching yours in a possessive and dominant way. You moaned into the kiss when you felt him take one of your hands to the clasp of your wedding dress.

You took a deep breath as you pulled away, your lips swollen and Apollo's face glowed with desire. Apollo skillfully removed your dress and kissed your neck, sucking the sensitive, soft skin gently. You gasped and took a deep breath, your hands gripping his arms.

Apollo purred and caressed your thigh, his hands squeezing the soft, warm flesh, eliciting sighs from you. The god kissed the hollow of her breasts, his teeth lightly marking the sensitive skin.

"Ah…" You sighed and leaned back against his chest, and he smiled and kissed his earlobe. You closed your eyes when you felt his hand on your thigh come up and rub your pussy covered in the thin panties you were wearing.

"I didn't know you liked that kind of clothes, my sunshine." He purred in your ear and his index finger slid down your slit, rubbing with a little force, making you moan softly.

"Only for my husband." You smiled mischievously and Apollo purred in approval, sucking on your neck and squeezing you tightly. You gripped the muscles in his arm, holding yourself steady as your wetness was touched by the god's slender fingers.

Apolo pulled your panties to the side and inserted a finger into your tight heat, making you bite your lip to hold back a moan.

"No." He said disapprovingly, "I want to hear your sounds."

You sighed as he shook his finger and rubbed it over your clit. You moaned softly, feeling your pussy tighten around his finger.

"You swallow my fingers so well… I imagine what it must be like with my cock." Apollo licked his lips in anticipation and kissed your lips tenderly in a perfunctory kiss. You gasped in pain as he introduced a second finger, spreading you wider.

"It will pass… The pain will pass, my love." He whispered and kissed your cheek, moving his fingers into your heat slowly. It still hurt a little, but as you relaxed under his touch, you began to feel a little pleasure.

Apollo took one hand to your bare breast and squeezed it, squeezing your breasts affectionately. You sighed as he came closer and licked the your nipple, his tongue bringing you sensations you never thought you could feel. You tried not to think about what his tongue would feel like licking you further down.

The god removed his fingers from inside you and you whimpered in frustration. Apollo smiled and licked his fingers, tasting you. He laid you down on the bed and removed your panties completely, sliding them down your legs. Apollo spread your legs and placed his head between them, you gasped as you felt his hot breath being blown against your exposed pussy.

"Oh…" You moaned softly when Apollo dove into you, his tongue licking all over your most intimate and private part. You sighed in pleasure when he licked your clit. He held your thighs and penetrated you with his tongue, making you moan his name like a prayer, "Apollo… Please!"

You begged him, begged him to take you at once.

"As my wife commands." Apollo smiled mischievously, reluctantly pulling away from your pussy and quickly removed your chiton and you sighed with desire at the sight of his naked body. The body you so desperately wanted.

You leaned back a little on the bed when he approached you like a predator and took a deep breath, placing your head against the soft pillow. Apollo got between your legs and rubbed the tip of his cock against her wet slit.

Apollo stretched his body and took your lips in a passionate and lust-filled kiss, you opened your mouth a little and allowed him to put his tongue in it, touching yours in a possessive way. You wrapped your arms around your husband's waist, pulling him close to you.

When you pulled away, your lips were slightly swollen and your face was flushed. To Apollo, you were a goddess. He licked his lips and gently pushed his cock into your tight cunt, immediately feeling how your inner walls clung to him.

You held back a groan of pain, not being used to this sensation. It wasn't bad, but just weird.

As Apolo pushed himself even deeper, you began to feel a burning sensation in your private part and you held back a groan of pain. You closed your eyes tightly and bit your bottom lip.

Apollo kissed your forehead affectionately and held your hands, intertwining your fingers and squeezing them lightly.

"Open your eyes, my love." He whispered against your lips, "I want to see your beautiful eyes."

You obeyed him and opened your eyes, looking into Apollo's blue ones who smiled lovingly at you. You took a deep breath when he moved his hips a little harder, squeezing your hand instinctively.

Apollo moaned your name as your pussy squeezed him and he kissed your neck, fucking you a little harder. Your inner walls clung desperately to the god, who moaned against your soft skin.

You moaned when Apolo let go of your hand and brought it to your clit, rubbing it slowly. It sent waves of pleasure through your body and you opened your mouth, sighing in pleasure.

Apollo, feeling your body relaxing under his touch, accelerated his movements and began to hit you, eliciting moans and sly little screams from you.

"A-Apollo!" You moaned his name. Apolo fucked you hard and rubbed your clit harder, extracting pleasure from your aching body.

Apollo moaned your name loudly as he came inside you, his cum being released inside your tight pussy. He rubbed your clit for a few more minutes when you finally came on his fingers.

You were panting and sweaty, feeling pleasantly satisfied. Your first time with your husband had been very pleasant.

Apollo smiled and kissed your hand, staring at you with lust and love. You felt your pussy throb at the sight and knew that the night was far from over.

And you were happy about that.

The god of sun, with his golden radiance, (Y/N), with her deadly beauty, met under the canopy, swearing eternal love in the starlight. As Apollo and (Y/N) fell into love, their wedding night shone with the intensity of the sun and the passion of mortals and gods united in eternal love.